UfcRARY 

W,v«r«it>       f    C-WoffW. 

IRVINF 


\ 


RAPHAEL; 


OR, 


PAGES    OF 


BY  ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE, 

AUTHOE    OF  THE    "HISTORY   OF  THE   GIRONDISTS;     OR,   PERSONAL    MEMOIRS   OF  TUB 
PATRIOTS   OF  THE   FRENCH   REVOLUTION,"   ETC. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 
329    &    331    PEARL    STREET, 

FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

t87  r. 


PROLOGUE, 


THE  real  name  of  the  friend  who  wrote  these  pages  was 
not  Raphael.  We  often  called  him  so  in  sport,  because 
in  his  boyhood  he  much  resembled  a  youthful  portrait  of  Raphael, 
which  may  be  seen  in  the  Barberini  gallery  at  Rome,  at  the  Pitti 
palace  in  Florence,  arid  at  the  Museum  of  the  Louvre.  We  had 
given  him  the  name,  too,  because  the  distinctive  feature  of  this 
youth's  character  was  his  lively  sense  of  the  Beautiful  in  nature 
and  art ;  a  sense  so  keen,  that  his  mind  was,  so  to  speak,  merely 
the  shadowing  forth  of  the  ideal  or  material  beauty  scattered 
throughout  the  works  of  God  and  man.  This  feeling  was  the 
result  of  his  exquisite  and  almost  morbid  sensibility — morbid,  at 
least,  until  time  had  somewhat  blunted  it.  We  would  some- 
times, in  allusion  to  those  who,  from,  their  ardent  longings  to  re 
visit  their  country,  are  called  home-sick,  say  that  he  was  heaven- 
sick,  and  he  would  smile,  and  say  that  we  were  right. 

This  love  of  the  Beautiful  made  him  unhappy  ;  in  another 
situation  it  might  have  rendered  him  illustrious.  Had  he  held 
a  pencil,  he  would  have  painted  the  Virgin  of  Foligno  ;  as  a 
sculptor,  he  would  have  chiseled  the  Psyche  of  Canova ;  had 
he  known  the  language  in  which  sounds  are  written,  he  would 
have  noted  the  aerial  lament  of  the  sea-breeze  sighing  among 
the  fibers  of  Italian  pines,  or  the  breathing  of  a  sleeping  girl  who 
dreams  of  one  she  will  not  name ;  had  he  been  a  poet,  he  would 
have  written  the  stanzas  of  Tasso's  Erminia,  the  moonlight  talk 
of  Shakspeare's  Romeo  and?  Juliet,  or  Byron's  portrait  of  Haidee. 

He  loved  the  Good  as  well  as  the  Beautiful ;  but  he  loved 
not  virtue  for  its  holiness,  he  loved  it  for  its  beauty.  He  wi.uld 
have  been  aspiring  in  imagination,  although  he  was  not  ambi- 
tious by  character.  Had  he  lived  in  those  ancient  republics 
where  men  obtained  their  full  development  through  liberty,  as 
the  free,  unfettered  body  develops  itself  in  pure  air  and  open 
sunshine,  he  would  have  aspired  to  every  summit,  like  Caesar, 


6  PROLOGUE. 


he  would  have  spoken  as  Demosthenes,  and  would  have  died  as 
Cato.  But  his  inglorious  and  obscure  destiny  confined  him, 
against  his  will,  in  speculative  inaction — he  had  wings  to  spread, 
and  no  surrounding  ah'  to  bear  them  up.  He  died  young, 
straining  his  gaze  into  the  future,  and  ardently  surveying  the 
space  over  which  he  was  never  to  travel. 

Every  one  knows  the  youthful  portrait  of  Raphael  to  which 
I  have  alluded.  It  represents  a  youth  of  sixteen,  whose  face 
is  somewhat  paled  by  the  rays  of  a  Roman  sun,  but  on  whose 
cheek  still  blooms  the  soft  down  of  childhood.  A  glancing  ray 
of  light  seems  to  play  on  «the  velvet  of  the  cheek.  He  leans 
his  elbow  on  a  table  ;  the  arm  is  bent  upward  to  support  the 
head,  which  rests  on  the  palm  of  the  hand,  and  the  admirably- 
modeled  fingers  are  lightly  imprinted  on  the  cheek  and  chin  ; 
the  delicate  mouth  is  thoughtful  and  melancholy,  the  nose  is 
slender  at  its  rise,  and  slightly  tinged  with  blue,  as  though  the 
azure  veins  shone  through  the  fair  transparency  of  the  skin  ; 
the  eyes  are  of  that  dark,  heavenly  hue  which  the  Apennine 
wears  at  the  approach  of  dawn  ;  they  gaze  earnestly  forward, 
but  are  slightly  raised  to  heaven,  as  though  they  ever  looked 
higher  than  nature ;  a  liquid  luster  illuminates  their  inmost 
depths,  like  rays  dissolved  in  dew  or  tears.  On  the  scarcely 
arched  brow,  beneath  the  delicate  skin,  we  trace  the  muscles, 
those  responsive  chords  of  the  instrument  of  thought;  the  tem- 
ples seem  to  throb  with  reflection ;  the  ear  appears  to  listen ; 
the  dark  hair,  unskillfully  cut  by  a  sister,  or  some  young  com- 
panion of  the  studio,  casts  a  shadow  upon  the  hand  and  cheek, 
and  a  small  cap  of  black  velvet,  placed  on  the  crown  of  the 
head,  shades  the  brow.  One  can  not  pass  before  this  portrait 
without  musing  sadly,  one  knows  not  why.  It  represents  the 
reverie  of  youthful  genius  pausing  on  the  threshold  of  its  des- 
tiny. What  will  be  the  fate  of  that  soul  standing  at  the  portal 
of  life  ] 

Now,  in  idea,  add  six  years  to  the  age  of  that  dreaming  boy; 
suppose  the  features  bolder,  the  complexion  more  bronzed  ; 
place  a  few  furrows  on  the  brow,  slightly  dim  the  look,  sadden 
the  lips,  give  height  to  the  figure,  and  throw  out  the  muscles  in 
bolder  relief;  let  the  Italian  costume  of  the  days  of  Leo  X.  be 
exchanged  for  the  somber  and  plain  uniform  of  a  youth  bred  in 
the  simplicity  of  rural  life,  who  seeks  no  elegance  in  dress;  and 
'^f  the  pensive  and  languid  attitude  be  retained,  you  will  have 
the  striking  likeness  of  our  "  Raphael"  at  the  age  of  twenty. 


PROLOGUE. 


He  was  of  a  poor,  though  ancient  family,  from  the  mountain- 
ous province  of  Forez,  and  his  father,  whose  sole  dignity  was 
that  of  honor  (worth  all  others),  had,  like  the  nobles  of  Spain, 
exchanged  the  sword  for  the  plough.  His  mother,  still  young 
and  handsome,  seemed  his  sister,  so  much  did  they  resemble 
each  other.  She  had  been  bred  amid  the  luxurious  elegan- 
cies of  a  capital ;  and  as  the  balmy  essence  of  the  rose  perfumes 
the  crystal  vase  of  the  seraglio  in  which  it  has  once  been  con- 
tained, so  she,  too,  had  preserved  that  fragrant  atmosphere  of 
manners  and  language,  which  never  evaporates  entirely. 

In  her  secluded  mountains,  with  the  loved  husband  of  hei 
choice,  and  with  her  children,  in  whom  she  had  complacently 
centered  all  the  pride  of  her  maternal  heart,  she  had  regretted 
nothing.  She  closed  the  fair  book  of  youth  at  these  three  worda 
— "  God,  husband,  children."  Raphael  especially  was  her  best 
beloved.  She  would  have  purchased  for  him  a  kingly  destiny; 
but,  alas !  she  had  only  her  heart  with  which  to  raise  him  up, 
for  their  slender  fortune,  and  their  dreams  of  prosperity,  would 
ever  and  anon  crumble  to  their  very  foundation  beneath  the 
hand  of  fate. 

Two  holy  men,  driven  by  persecution  to  the  mountains,  had, 
soon  after  the  Reign  of  Terror,  taken  refuge  in  her  house. 
They  had  been  persecuted  as  members  of  a  mystical  religious 
sect,  which  dimly  predicted  a  renovation  of  the  age.  They 
loved  Raphael,  who  was  then  a  mere  child,  and,  obscurely  pro- 
phesying his  fate,  pointed  out  his  star  in  the  heavens,  and  told 
his  mother  to  watch  over  that  son  with  all  her  heart.  She  re- 
proached herself  for  being  too  credulous,  for  she  was  very  pious ; 
but  still  she  believed  them.  In  such  matters,  a  mother  is  so  easy 
of  belief?  Her  credulity  supported  her  under  many  trials,  but 
spurred  her  to  efforts  beyond  her  means  to  educate  Raphael, 
and  ultimately  deceived  her. 

I  had  known  Raphael  since  he  was  twelve  years  old,  and 
next  to  his  mother  he  loved  me  best  on  earth.  We  had  met 
since  the  conclusion  of  our  studies,  first  in  Paris,  then  at  Rome, 
whither  he  had  been  taken  by  one  of  his  father's  relatives,  for 
the  purpose  of  copying  manuscripts  in  the  Vatican  Library. 
There  he  had  acquired  the  impassioned  language  and  the  genius 
of  Italy.  He  spoke  Italian  better  than  his  mother  tongue.  At 
evening  he  would  sit  beneath  the  pines  of  the  Villa  Pamphili, 
and  gazing  on  the  setting  sun  and  on  the  white  fragments  scat- 
tered on  the  plain,  like  the  bleached  bones  of  departed  Rome, 


8  PROLOGUE. 


would  pour  forth  extemporaneous  stanaas  that  made  us  weep : 
but  he  never  wrote.  "  Raphael,"  would  I  sometimes  say,  "  why 
do  you  not  write  V 

"Ah  !"  would  he  answer,  "does  the  wind  write  what  it  sighs 
in  this  harmonious  canopy  of  leaves'?  Does  the  sea  write  the 
wail  of  its  shores  1 — Naught  that  has  been  written  is  truly, 
really  beautiful,  and  the  heart  of  man  never  discloses  its  best 
and  most  divine  portion.  It  is  impossible  !  The  instrument  is 
of  flesh,  and  the  note  is  of  fire  !  Between  what  is  felt,  and  what 
is  expressed,"  would  he  add,  mournfully,  "  there  is  the  same 
distance  as  between  the  soul  and  the  twenty-six  letters  of  an 
alphabet !  Immensity  of  distance  !  Think  you  a  flute  of  reeds 
can  give  an  idea  of  the  harmony  of  the  spheres  V 

I  left  him  to  return  to  Paris.  He  was  at  that  time  striving, 
through  his  mother's  interest,  to  obtain  some  situation  in  which 
he  might  by  active  employment  remove  from  his  soul  its  heavy 
weight,  and  lighten  the  oppressive  burthen  of  his  fate.  Men  of 
his  own  age  sought  him,  and  women  looked  graciously  on  him 
as  he  passed  them  by.  But  he  never  went  into  society,  and  of 
all  women  he  loved  his  mother  only. 

We  suddenly  lost  sight  of  him  for  three  years ;  though  we 
afterward  learned  that  he  had  been  seen  in  Switzerland,  Ger- 
many, and  Savoy  ;  and  that  in  winter  he  passed  many  hours  of 
his  nights  on  a  bridge,  or  on  one  of  the  quays  of  Paris.  He  had 
all  the  appearance  of  extreme  destitution.  It  was  only  many 
years  afterward  that  we  learned  more.  We  constantly  thought 
of  him,  though  absent,  for  he  was  one  of  those  who  could  defy 
the  forgetfulness  of  friends. 

Chance  reunited  us  once  more  after  an  interval  of  twelve 
years.  It  so  happened  that  I  had  inherited  a  small  estate  in  his 
province,  and  when  I  went  there  to  dispose  of  it,  I  inquired 
after  Raphael.  I  was  told  that  he  had  lost  father,  mother,  and 
wife  in  the  space  of  a  few  years ;  that  after  these  pangs  of  the 
heart,  he  had  had  to  bear  the  blows  of  fortune,  and  that  of  all 
the  domain  of  his  fathers,  nothing  now  remained  to  him  but  the 
old  dismantled  tower  on  the  edge  of  the  ravine,  the  garden, 
orchard,  and  meadow,  with  a  few  acres  of  unproductive  land. 
These  he  ploughed  himself,  with  two  miserable  cows ;  and  was 
only  distinguished  from  his  peasant  neighbors  by  the  book  which 
he  carried  to  the  field,  and  which  he  would  sometimes  hold 
in  one  hand,  while  the  other  directed  the  plough.  For  many 
weeks,  however,  he  had  not  been  seen  to  leave  his  wretched 


PROLOGUE.  9 

abode.  It  was  supposed  that  he  had  started  on  one  of  those 
Jong  journeys  which  with  him  lasted  years.  "  It  would  be  a 
pity,"  it  was  said,  "  for  every  one  in  the  neighborhood  loves 
him;  though  poor,  he  does  as  much  good  as  any  rich  man 
Many  a  warm  piece  of  cloth  has  been  made  from  the  wool  of 
his  sheep ;  at  night  he  teaches  the  little  children  of  the  sur- 
rounding hamlets  how  to  read  and  write,  or  draw.  He  warms 
them  at  his  hearth,  and  shares  his  bread  with  them,  though  God 
knows  he  has  not  much  to  spare  when  crops  are  short,  as  this 
year." 

It  was  thus  all  spoke  of  Raphael.  I  wished  to  visit  at  least 
the  abode  of  my  friend,  and  was  directed  to  the  foot  of  the 
hillock,  on  the  summit  of  which  stood  the  blackened  tower,  with 
its  surrounding  sheds  and  stables,  amidst  a  group  of  hazel  trees. 
A  trunk  of  a  tree,  which  had  been  thrown  across,  enabled  me 
to  pass  over  the  almost  dried-up  torrent  of  the  ravine,  and  I 
climbed  the  steep  path,  the  loose  stones  giving  way  under  my 
feet.  Two  cows  and  three  sheep  were  grazing  on  the  barren 
sides  of  the  hillock,  arid  were  tended  by  an  old  half-blind  serv- 
ant, who  was  telling  his  beads,  seated  on  an  ancient  escutcheon 
of  stone,  which  had  fallen  from  the  arch  of  the  doorway. 

He  told  me  that  Raphael  was  not  gone,  but  had  been  ill  for 
the  last  two  months  ;  that  it  was  plain  he  would  never  leave  the 
lower  but  for  the  churchyard;  and  the  old  man  pointed  with  his 
meager  hand  to  the  burying  ground  on  the  opposite  hill.  I 
asked  if  I  could  see  Raphael.  "  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  old  man ; 
"  go  up  the  steps,  and  draw  the  string  of  the  latch  of  the  great 
\iall-door  on  the  left.  You  will  find  him  stretched  on  his  bed,  as 
gentle  as  an  angel,  and,"  added  he,  drawing  the  back  of  his 
hand  across  his  eyes,  "as  simple  as  a  child!"  I  mounted  the 
steep  and  worn-out  steps  which  wound  round  the  outside  of  the 
tower,  and  ended  at  a  small  platform,  covered  by  a  tiled  roof, 
the  broken  tiles  of  which  strewed  the  stone  steps.  I  lifted  the 
latch  of  the  door  on  my  left,  arid  entered.  Never  shall  I  furget 
the  sight.  The  chamber  was  vast,  occupying  all  the  space 
between  the  four  walls  of  the  tower;  it  was  lighted  from  two 
windows,  with  stone  cross-bars,  and  the  dusty  and  broken 
lozenge-shaped  panes  of  glass  were  set  in  lead.  The  huge 
beams  of  the  ceiling  were  blackened  by  smoke,  the  floor  waa 
paved  with  bricks,  and  in  a  high  chimney  with  roughly  fluted 
wooden  jambs,  an  iron  pot  filled  with  potatoes  was  suspended 
over  a  fire,  where  a  long'  branch  was  burning,  or  rather  smoking, 

A* 


10  r  ROT.OG  v  A. 

The  only  articles  of  furniture  were  two  high-backed  arm-chairs, 
covered  with  a  plain  colored  stuff,  of  which  it  was  impossible  to 
guess  the  original  color;  a  large  table,  half  covered  with  an 
unbleached  linen  table  cloth,  in  which  a  loaf  was  wrapped,  the 
other  half  being  strewed  pell-mell  with  papers  and  books;  and, 
lastly,  a  rickety,  worm-eaten  four-post  bedstead,  with  its  blue 
serge  curtains  looped  back  to  admit  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  the 
air  from  the  open  window. 

A  man  who  was  still  young,  but  attenuated  by  consumption  and 
want,  was  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  occupied  in  throwing 
crumbs  to  a  whole  host  of  swallows,  which  were  wheeling  their 
flight  around  him. 

The  birds  flew  away  at  the  noise  of  my  approach,  and  perch- 
ed on  the  cornice  of  the  hall,  or  on  the  tester  of  the  bed.  I 
recognized  Raphael,  pale  and  thin  as  he  was  !  His  countenance, 
though  no  longer  youthful,  had  not  lost  its  peculiar  character; 
but  a  change  had  come  over  its  loveliness,  and  its  beauty  was 
now  of  the  grave.  Rembrandt  would  have  wished  for  no 
better  model  for  his  Christ  in  the  garden  of  Olives.  His  dark 
hair  clustered  thickly  on  his  shoulders,  and  was  thrown  back  in 
disorder,  as  by  the  weary  hand  of  the  laborer,  when  the  sweat 
and  toil  of  the  day  is  over.  The  long  untrimmed  beard  prew 
with  a  natural  symmetry  that  disclosed  the  graceful  curve  of  the 
lip,  and  the  contour  of  the  cheek ;  there  was  still  the  noble  out- 
line of  the  nose,  the  fair  and  delicate  complexion,  the  pensive, 
and  now  sunken  eye !  His  shirt,  thi'own  open  on  the  chest, 
displayed  his  muscular  though  attenuated  frame,  which  might 
yet  have  appeared  majestic,  had  his  weakness  allowed  him  to  sit 
erect. 

He  knew  me  at  a  glance,  made  one  step  forward  with 
extended  arms,  and  fell  back  upon  the  bed.  We  first  wept, 
and  then  talked  together.  He  related  the  past;  how,  when  he 
had  thought  to  cull  the  flowers  or  fruits  of  life,  his  hopes  had 
ever  been  marred  by  fortune  or  by  death  :  the  loss  of  his  father, 
mother,  wife,  and  child;  his  reverses  of  fortune,  and  the  com- 
pulsory sale  of  his  ancestral  domain :  he  told  how  he  retired  to 
his  ruined  home,  with  no  other  companionship  than  that  of  his 
mother's  old  herdsman,  who  served  him  without  pay,  for  the 
love  he  bore  to  his  house;  and  lastly,  spoke  of  the  consuming 
languor  which  would  sweep  him  away  with  the  autumnal  leaves, 
and  lay  him  in  the  churchyard,  beside  those  he  had  loved  so 
well !  His  intense  imaginative  faculty  might  be  seen  strong 


PROLOGUE.  11 


even  in  death,  and  in  idea  he  loved  to  endow  with  a  fanciful 
sympathy  the  turf  and  flowers  which  would  blossom  on  his  grave. 

"  Do  you  know  what  grieves  me  most1?"  said  he,  pointing  to 
the  fringe  of  little  birds  which  were  perched  round  the  top  of 
his  bed — "  it  is  to  think  that,  next  spring,  these  poor  little  ones, 
my  latest  friends,  will  seek  for  me  in  vain  in  the  tower.  They 
will  no  longer  find  the  broken  pane  through  which  to  fly  in ; 
and  on  the  floor,  the  little  flocks  of  wool  from  my  mattress  with 
which  to  build  their  nests ;  but  the  old  nurse,  to  whom  I  be- 
queath my  little  all,  will  take  care  of  them  as  long  as  she  lives," 
he  resumed,  as  if  to  comfort  himself  with  the  idea — "and  after 
her Well!  God  will,  for  He  feedeth  the  young  ravens." 

He  seemed  moved  while  speaking  of  these  little  creatures. 
It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  had  long  been  weaned  from  the  sym- 
pathy of  men,  and  that  the  whole  tenderness  of  his  soul,  which 
had  been  repulsed  by  them,  was  now  transferred  to  dumb  an- 
imals. "  Will  you  spend  any  time  among  our  mountains  ?"  he 
inquired.  "Yes,"  I  replied.  "  So  much  the  better,"  he  added; 
"  you  will  close  my  eyes,  and  take  care  that  my  grave  is  dug  as 
close  as  possible  to  those  of  my  mother,  wife,  and  child." 

He  then  begged  me  to  draw  toward  him  a  large  chest  of  carved 
wood,  which  was  concealed  beneath  a  bag  of  Indian  corn  at  one 
end  of  the  room.  I  placed  the  chest  upon  the  bed,  and  from  it 
he  drew  a  quantity  of  papers  which  he  tore  silently  to  pieces 
for  half  an  hour,  and  then  bid  his  old  nurse  sweep  them  into  the 
fire.  There  were  verses  in  many  languages,  and  innumerable 
pages  of  fragments,  separated  by  dates,  like  memoranda.  "  Why 
should  you  burn  all  these  1"  I  timidly  suggested  ;  "  has  not  man 
a  moral  as  well  as  a  material  inheritance  to  bequeath  to  those 
who  come  after  him  1  You  are  perhaps  destroying  thoughts 
and  feelings  which  might  have  quickened  a  soul." 

"  What  matters  it  1"  he  said  ;  "  there  are  tears  enough  in  this 
world,  and  we  need  not  deposit  a  few  more  in  the  heart  of  man. 
These,"  said  he,  showing  the  verses,  "  are  the  cast  off,  useless 
feathers  of  my  soul ;  it  has  moulted  since  then,  and  spread  its 
bolder  wings  for  eternity  !"  He  then  continued  to  burn  and  de- 
stroy, while  I  looked  out  of  the  broken  window  at  the  dreary 
landscape. 

At  length,  he  called  me  once  more  to  the  bedside.  "  Here," 
said  he,  "  save  this  one  little  manuscript,  which  I  have  not  cour- 
age to  burn.  When  I  am  gone,  my  poor  nurse  would  make 
bags  for  her  seeds  with  it,  and  I  would  not  that  the  name  which 


12  PROLOGUE. 


fills  its  pages  should  be  profaned  ;  take  and  keep  it  till  you  heal 
that  I  am  no  more.  After  my  death  you  may  burn  it,  or  pre- 
serve it  till  your  old  age,  to  think  of  me  sometimes  as  you  glance 
over  it." 

I  hid  the  roll  of  paper  beneath  my  cloak,  and  took  my  leave, 
resolving  inwardly  to  return  the  next  day  to  soothe  the  last  mo- 
ments of  Raphael  by  my  care  and  friendly  discourse.  As  I  de- 
scended the  steps,  I  saw  about  twenty  little  children  with  their 
wooden  shoes  in  their  hands,  who  had  come  to  take  the  lessons 
which  he  gave  them,  even  on  his  death-bed.  A  little  further  on 
I  met  the  village  priest,  who  had  come  to  spend  the  evening 
with  him.  I  bowed  respectfully,  and  as  he  noted  my  swollen 
eyes,  he  returned  my  salute  with  an  air  of  mournful  sympathy. 

The  next  day  I  returned  to  the  tower;  Raphael  had  died 
during  the  night,  and  the  village  bell  was  already  tolling  for  his 
burial.  Women  and  children  were  standing  at  their  doors,  look- 
ing mournfully  in  the  direction  of  the  tower,  and  in  the  little 
green  field  adjoining  the  church,  two  men,  with  spades  and  mat- 
tock, were  digging  a  grave  at  the  foot  of  a  cross. 

I  drew  near  to  the  door;  a  cloud  of  twittering  swallows  were 
fluttering  round  the  open  windows,  darting  in  and  out,  as  though 
the  spoiler  had  robbed  their  nests. 

Since  then  I  have  read  these  pages,  and  now  know  why  he 
loved  to  be  surrounded  by  these  birds,  and  what  memories  they 
waked  in  him,  even  to  his  dying  day. 


i. 

THERE  are  places  and  climates,  seasons  and  hours,  witn 
their  outward  circumstance,  so  much  in  harmony  with  cer- 
tain impi'essions  of  the  heart,  that  nature  and  the  soul  of  man 
appear  to  be  parts  of  one  vast  whole ;  and  if  we  separate  the 
stage  from  the  drama,  or  the  drama  from  the  stage,  the  whole 
scene  fades,  and  the  feeling  vanishes.  If  we  take  from  Rene  the 
cliffs  of  Brittany,  or  the  wild  savannahs  from  Atala,  the  mists  of 
Svvabia  from  Werther,  or  the  sunny  waves  and  scorched-up  hills 
from  Paul  and  Virginia,  we  can  neither  understand  Chateau- 
briand, Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre,  or  Werther.  Places  and  events 
are  closely  linked,  for  nature  is  the  same  in  the  eye  as  in  the 
heart  of  man.  We  are  earth's  children,  and  life  is  the  same  in 
jap  as  in  blood  :  all  that  the  earth,  our  mother,  feels  and  ex- 
presses to  the  eye  by  her  form  and  aspect,  in  melancholy  or  in 
splendor,  finds  an  echo  within  us.  One  can  not  thoroughly  enter 
into  certain  feelings,  save  in  the  spot  where  they  first  had  birth. 

II. — At  the  entrance  of  Savoy,  that  natural  labyrinth  of  deep 
valleys,  which  descend  like  so  many  torrents  from  the  Simplon, 
St.  Bernard,  and  Mount  Cenis,  and  direct  their  course  toward 
France  and  Switzerland,  one  wider  valley  separates  at  Cham- 
bery  from  the  Alpine  chain,  and,  striking  off  toward  Geneva  and 
Annecy,  displays  its  verdant  bed,  intersected  with  lakes  and 
rivers,  between  the  Mont  du  Chat  and  the  almost  mural  mount- 
ains of  Beauges. 

On  the  left,  the  Mont  du  Chat,  like  a  gigantic  rampart,  rung 
in  one  uninterrupted  ridge  for  the  space  of  two  leagues,  mark- 
ing the  horizon  with  a  dark  and  scarcely  undulated  line.  A 
few  jagged  peaks  of  gray  rock  at  the  eastern  extremity,  alone 
break  the  almost  geometrical  monotony  of  its  appearance,  and 
tell  that  it  was  the  hand  of  God,  and  not  of  man,  that  piled  up 
these  huge  masses.  Toward  Chambery,  the  mountain  descends 
by  gentle  steps  to  the  plain,  and  forms  natural  terraces,  clothed 


14  RAPHAEL. 

with  walnut  and  chestnut  trees,  entwined  with  clusters  of  the 
creeping  vine.  In  the  midst  of  this  wild,  luxuriant  vegetation, 
one  sees  here  and  there  some  country  house  shining  through  the 
trees,  the  tall  spire  of  a  humble  village,  or  the  old  dark  towers 
and  battlements  of  some  castle  of  a  bygone  age.  The  plain 
was  once  a  vast  lake,  and  has  preserved  the  hollowed  form,  the 
indented  shores,  and  advanced  promontories  of  its  former  as- 
ooct;  but  in  lieu  of  the  spreading  waters,  there  are  the  yellow 
waves  of  the  bending  corn,  or  the  undulating  summit  of  the  ver- 
dant poplars.  Here  arid  there,  a  piece  of  rising  ground,  which 
was  once  an  island,  may  be  seen  with  its  clusters  of  thatched 
roofs,  half  hidden  among  the  branches.  Beyond  this  dried-up 
basin,  the  Mont  du  Chat  rises  more  abrupt  and  bold,  its  base 
washed  by  the  waters  of  a  lake  as  blue  as  the  firmament  above 
it.  This  lake,  which  is  not  more  than  six  leagues  in  length,  va- 
ries in  breadth  from  one  to  three  leagues,  and  is  surrounded  and 
hemmed  in  with  bold,  steep  rocks  on  the  French  side;  on  the 
Savoy  side,  on  the  contrary,  it  winds  unmolested  into  several 
creeks  and  small  bays,  bordered  by  vine-covered  hillocks  and 
well  wooded  slopes,  and  skirted  by  fig-trees,  whose  branches  dip 
into  its  very  waters.  The  lake  then  dwindles  away  gradually 
to  the  foot  of  the  rocks  of  Chatillon,  which  open  to  afford  a 
passage  for  the  overflow  of  its  waters  into  the  Rhone.  The 
burial-place  of  the  princes  of  the  house  of  Savoy,  the  abbey  of 
Haute-Combe,  stands  on  the  northern  side,  upon  its  foundation 
of  granite,  and  projects  the  vast  shadow  of  its  spaciotis  cloisters 
on  the  waters  of  the  lake.  Screened  during  the  day  from  the 
rays  of  the  sun  by  the  high  banier  of  the  Mont  du  Chat,  the 
edifice,  from  the  obscurity  which  envelops  it,  seems  emblemat- 
ical of  the  eternal  night  awaiting  at  its  gates,  the-  princes  who 
descend  from  a  throne  into  its  vaults.  Toward  evening,  how- 
ever, a  ray  of  the  setting  sun  strikes  and  reverberates  on  its 
walls,  as  a  beacon  to  mark  the  haven  of  life  at  the  close  of  day. 
A  few  fishing  boats,  without  sails,  glide  silently  on  the  deep 
waters,  beneath  the  shade  of  the  mountain,  and  from  their  dingy 
color  can  scarcely  be  distinguished  from  its  dark  an'd  rocky  sides. 
Eagles,  with  their  dusky  plumage,  incessantly  hover  over  the 
cliffs  and  boats,  as  if  to  rob  the  nets  of  their  prey,  or  make  a 
sudden  stoop  at  the  birds  which  follow  in  the  wake  of  the 
boats. 

III. — At  no  great  distance,  the  little  town  of  Aix,  in 


RAPHAEL.  15 

steaming  with  its  hot  springs,  and  redolent  of  sulphur,  is  seated 
on  the  slope  of  a  hill  covered  with  vineyards,  oi-chards,  and 
meadows.  A  long  avenue  of  poplars,  the  growth  of  a  century, 
connects  the  lake  with  the  town,  and  reminds  one  of  those  far 
stretching  rows  of  cypresses  which  lead  to  Turkish  cemeteries. 
The  meadows  and  fields,  on  either  side  of  this  road,  are  inter 
sected  by  the  rocky  beds  of  the  often  dried-up  mountain  tor- 
rents, and  shaded  by  giant  walnut  trees,  upon  whose  boughs, 
vines  as  sturdy  as  those  of  the  woods  of  America,  hang  their 
clustering  branches.  Here  and  there  a  distant  vista  of  the  lake 
shows  its  surface,  alternately  sparkling  or  lead  colored,  as  the 
passing  cloud  or  the  hour  of  the  day  may  make  it. 

When  I  arrived  at  Aix,  the  crowd  had  already  left  it.  The 
hotels  and  public  places,  where  strangers  and  idlers  flock  during 
the  summer,  were  then  closed.  All  were  gone,  save  a  few  in- 
firm paupers,  seated  in  the  sun,  at  the  door  of  the  lowest  de- 
scription of  inns  ;  and  some  invalids,  past  all  hope  of  recovery, 
who  might  be  seen,  during  the  hottest  hours  of  the  day,  drag- 
ging their  feeble  steps  along,  and  treading  the  withered  leaves 
that  had  fallen  from  the  poplars  during  the  night. 

IV. — The  autumn  was  mild,  but  had  set  in  early.  The  leaves 
which  had  been  blighted  by  the  morning  frost,  fell  in  roseate 
showers  from  the  vines  and  chestnut  trees.  Until  noon,  the  mist 
overspread  the  valley  like  an  overflowing  nocturnal  inundation, 
covering  all  but  the  tops  of  the  highest  poplars  in  the  plain  • 
the  hillocks  rose  in  view  like  islands,  and  the  peaks  of  mount 
ains  appeared  as  headlands  in  the  midst  of  ocean  ;  but  when  the 
sun  rose  higher  in  the  heavens,  the  mild  southerly  breeze  drove 
before  it  all  these  vapors  of  earth.  The  rushing  of  the  impris- 
oned winds  in  the  gorges  of  the  mountains,  the  murmur  of  the 
waters,  and  the  whispering  trees,  produced  sounds  melodious 
or  powerful,  sonorous  or  melancholy,  and  seemed  in  a  few  min 
utes  to  run  through  the  whole  range  of  earth's  joys  and  sorrows 
its  strength  or  its  melancholy.  They  stirred  up  one's  very  soul, 
then  died  away  like  the  voices  of  celestial  spirits,  that  pass  and 
disappear.  Silence,  such  as  the  ear  has  no  perception  of  else- 
where, succeeded,  and  hushed  all  to  rest.  The  sky  resumed  its 
almost  Italian  serenity ;  the  Alps  stood  out  once  more  against  a 
cloudless  sky ;  the  drops  from  the  dissolving  mist  fell  pattering 
on  the  dry  leaves,  or  shone  like  brilliants  on  the  grass.  These 
hours  were  quickly  over ;  the  pale  blue  shades  of  evening  glided 


16  RAPHAEL. 

Bwiftly  on,  vailing  the  horizon  with  their  cold  drapery  as  with  a 
shroud.  It  seemed  the  death  of  Nature,  dying,  as  youth  and 
beauty  die,  with  all  its  charms,  and  all  its  serenity. 

Scenes  such  as  these,  exhibiting  nature  in  its  languid  beauty, 
were  too  much  in  accordance  with  my  feelings.  While  they 
gave  an  additional  charm  to  my  own  languor,  they  increased  it, 
and  I  voluntarily  plunged  into  an  abyss  of  melancholy.  But  it 
was  a  melancholy  so  replete  with  thoughts,  impressions,  and 
elevating  desires,  with  so  soft  a  twilight  of  the  soul,  that  I  had  no 
wish  to  shake  it  off.  It  was  a  malady,  the  very  consciousness 
of  which  was  an  allurement,  rather  than  a  pain,  and  in  which 
death  appeared  but  as  a  voluptuous  vanishing  into  space.  I  had 
given  myself  up  to  the  charm,  and  had  determined  to  keep  aloof 
from  society,  which  might  have  dissipated  it,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  world  to  wrap  myself  in  silence,  solitude,  and  reserve.  I 
used  my  isolation  of  mind  as  a  shroud  to  shut  out  the  sight  of 
men,  so  as  to -contemplate  God  arid  nature  only. 

Passing  by  Chambery,  I  had  seen  my  friend,  Louis  de  *  *  *, 
I  had  found  him  in  the  same  state  of  mind  as  myself,  disgusted 
with  the  bitterness  of  life,  his  genius  unappreciated,  the  body 
worn  out  by  the  mind,  and  all  his  better  feelings  thrown  back 
upon  his  heart. 

Louis  had  mentioned  to  me  a  quiet  and  secluded  house,  ii 
the  higher  part  of  the  town  of  Aix,  where  invalids  were  admit 
ted  to  board.     The  establishment  was  conducted  by  a  worth) 
old  doctor  (who  had  retired  from  the  profession),  and  commu 
nicated  with  the  town  by  a  narrow  pathway,  which  lay  betweei 
the  streams  that  issue  from  the  hot  springs.      The  back  of  tht 
house  looked  on  a  garden,  surrounded  by  trellis  and  vine  arbors; 
and  beyond  that,  there  were  paths  where  goats  only  were  to 
be  seen,  which  led  to  the  mountain  through  sloping  meadows, 
and  through  woods  of  chestnut  and  walnut  trees.     Louis  had 
promised  to  join  me  at  Aix,  as  soon  as  he  should  have  settled 
some  business,  consequent  on  the  death  of  his  mother,  which 
detained  him  at  Chambery.     I  looked  forward  with  pleasure 
to  his  arrival,  for  we  understood  each  other,  and  the  same  feel- 
ing of  disenchantment  was  common  to  us  both.     Grief  knits 
two  hearts  in  closer  bonds  than  happiness  ever  can  ;  and  com- 
mon sufferings  are  far  stronger  links  than  common  joys.     Louis 
was,  at  that  particular  time,  the  only  person  whose  society  was 
not  distasteful  to  me,  and  yet  I  waited  his  arrival  without  eager- 
ness or  impatience. 


RAPHAEL.  17 

V. — I  was  kindly  and  graciously  received  in  the  house  of  the 
old  doctor,  and  a  room  was  allotted  to  me,  which  overlooked 
the  garden  and  the  country  beyond.  Almost  all  the  other  rooms 
were  untenanted,  and  the  long  table  d'hote  was  deserted.  At 
meal  times,  a  few  invalids  from  Chambery  and  Turin,  who 
had  over-staid  the  season,  assembled  with  the  family.  These 
boarders  had  arrived  late,  when  most  of  the  visitors  of  the  baths 
were  already  gone,  in  hopes  of  finding  cheaper  lodgings,  and  a 
style  of  living  in  accordance  with  their  poverty.  There  was  no 
one  with  whom  I  could  converse,  or  form  a  passing  acquaint- 
ance. This  the  old  doctor  and  his  wife  soon  saw,  and  threw 
the  blame  on  the  advanced  season,  and  on  the  bathers  who 
had  left  too  soon.  They  often  spoke  with  visible  enthusiasm, 
and  tender  and  compassionate  respect,  of  a  young  stranger,  a 
lady,  who  had  remained  at  the  baths  in  a  weak  and  languid 
state  of  health,  which  it  was  feared  would  degenerate  into  slow 
consumption.  She  had  lived  alone  with  her  maid  for  the  last 
three  months,  in  one  of  the  most  retired  apartments  of  the 
house,  taking  her  meals  in  her  own  rooms  ;  and  was  never  seen 
except  at  her  window  that  looked  toward  the  garden,  or  on  the 
stairs,  when  she  returned  from  a  donkey  ride  in  the  mountains. 

I  felt  compassion  for  this  young  creature,  a  stranger  like 
myself  in  a  foreign  land,  who  must  be  ill,  since  she  had  come 
in  quest  of  health,  and  was  doubtless  sad,  since  she  avoided  the 
bustle  and  even  the  sight  of  company;  but  I  felt  no  desire  to 
see  her,  spite  of  the  admiration  her  grace  and  beauty  had  excited 
on  those  around  me.  My  worn-out  heart  was  wearied  with 
wretched  and  short-lived  attachments,  of  which  I  blushed  to 
preserve  the  memories ;  not  one  of  which  I  could  recur  to  with 
pious  regret,  save  that  of  poor  Antonina.  I  was  penitent  and 
ashamed  of  my  past  follies  and  disorders;  disgusted  and  satiated 
of  vulgar  allurements ;  and  being  naturally  of  a  timid  and  re- 
served disposition,  without  that  self-confidence  which  prompts 
some  men  to  court  adventures,  or  to  seek  the  familiarity  of 
chance  acquaintances,  I  neither  wished  to  see,  nor  to  be  seen. 
Still  less  did  I  dream  of  l#ve.  On  the  contrary,  I  rejoiced,  in 
my  stern  and  mistaken  pride,  to  think  that  I  had  forever  stifled 
that  weakness  in  my  heart,  and  that  I  was  alone  to  feel,  or  to 
suffer  in  this  nether  world.  As  to  happiness,  I  no  longer  be- 
lieved in  it. 

VI. — I  passed  my  days  in  my  room,  with  no  other  company 


18  RAPHAEL. 

than  some  books  which  my  friend  had  sent  me  from  Chambery. 
In  the  afternoon,  I  used  to  ramble  alone  amid  the  wild  mount- 
ains which,  on  the  Italian  side,  form  the  boundary  of  the  valley 
of  Aix;  and  returning  home  in  the  evening,  harassed  and  fa- 
tigued, would  sit  down  to  supper,  and  then  retire  to  my  room, 
and  spend  whole  hours  seated  at  my  window.  I  gazed  at  the 
blue  firmament  above,  which,  like  the  abyss  attracting  him  who 
leans  over  it,  ever  attracts  the  thoughts  of  men,  as  though  it  had 
secrets  to  reveal.  Sleep  found  me  still  wandering  on  a  sea  of 
thoughts,  and  seeking  no  shore.  When  morning  came,  I  was 
awaked  by  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  by  the  murmur  of  the  hot 
springs ;  and  I  would  plunge  into  my  bath,  and  after  breakfast 
recommence  the  same  rambles,  and  the  same  melancholy  mus- 
ings as  the  day  before.  Sometimes  in  the  evening,  when  I 
looked  out  of  my  window  into  the  garden,  I  saw  another  lighted 
window,  not  far  from  my  own,  and  the  face  of  a  female,  who, 
with  one  hand  throwing  back  the  long  black  tresses  from  her 
brow,  gazed  like  myself  on  the  mountains,  the  sky,  and  moonlit 
garden.  I  could  only  distinguish  the  pale,  pure,  and  almost 
transparent  profile,  and  the  long,  dark  waves  of  the  hair,  which 
was  smoothed  down  at  the  temples.  I  used  to  see  this  face 
standing  out  on  the  brilliant  background  of  the  window,  which 
was  lighted  from  a  lamp  in  the  bed-room.  At  times,  too,  I  had 
heard  a  woman's  voice  saying  a  few  words,  or  giving  some 
orders  in  the  apartment.  The  slightly  foreign,  though  pure 
accent,  the  vibrations  of  that  soft,  languid,  and  yet  marvelously 
sonorous  voice,  of  which  I  heard  the  harmony  without  under- 
standing the  words,  had  interested  me.  Long  after  my  window 
was  closed,  that  voice  remained  in  my  ear  like  the  prolonged 
sound  of  an  echo.  I  had  never  heard  any  like  it,  even  in  Italy; 
it  sounded  through  the  half-closed  teeth  like  those  small  metallic 
lyres  that  the  children  of  the  islands  of  the  Archipelago  use 
when  they  play  on  the  sea-shore.  It  was  more  like  a  ringing 
sound  than  like  a  voice;  I  had  noticed  it,  little  dreaming  that 
that  voice  would  ring  loud  and  deep  forever  through  my  life. 
The  next  day  I  thought  no  more  of  it. 

One  day,  however,  on  returning  home  earlier,  and  entering 
by  the  little  garden-door  near  the  arbor,  I  had  a  nearer  view 
of  the  stranger,  who  was  sealed  on  a  bench  under  the  southern 
wall,  enjoying  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun.  She  thought  herself 
alone,  for  she  had  not  heard  the  sound  of  the  door  as  I  closed 
it  behind  me,  and  I  could  contemplate  her  unobserved.  We 


RAPHAEL.  19 


were  within  twenty  paces  of  each  other,  and  were  only  separated 
by  a  vine,  which  was  half-stripped  of  its  leaves :  the  shade  of 
the  vine-leaves  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  played  and  chased  each 
other  alternately  over  her  face.  She  appeared  larger  than  life, 
as  she  sat  like  one  of  those  marble  statues  enveloped  in  drapery, 
cf  which  we  admire  the  beauty  without  distinguishing  the  form. 
The  folds  of  her  dress  were  loose  and  flowing,  and  the  drapery 
of  a  white  shawl,  folded  closely  round  her,  showed  only  her 
slender  and  rather  attenuated  hands,  which  were  crossed  on 
her  lap.  In  one  she  carelessly  held  one  of  those  red  flowers 
which  grow  in  the  mountains  beneath  the  snow,  and  are  called, 
I  know  not  why,  "poets'  flowers."  One  end  of  her  shawl  was 
thrown  over  her  head  like  a  hood,  to  protect  her  from  the  damp 
evening  air.  She  was  bent  languidly  forward,  her  head  inclined 
upon  her  left  shoulder ;  and  the  eyelids,  with  their  long,  darn, 
lashes,  were  closed  against  the  dazzling  rays  of  the  sun.  Her 
complexion  was  pale,  her  features  motionless,  and  her  counte- 
nance so  expressive  of  profound  and  silent  meditation,  that  she 
resembled  a  statue  of  Death ;  but  of  that  death  which  bears 
away  the  soul  beyond  the  reach  of  human  woes  to  the  regions 
of  eternal  light  and  love.  The  sound  of  my  footsteps  on  the  dry 
leaves  made  her  look  up.  Her  large,  half-closed  eyes  were  of 
that  peculiar  tint  resembling  the  color  of  lapis  lazuli,  streaked 
with  brown,  and  the  drooping  lid  had  that  natural  fringe  of  long, 
dark  lashes,  which  Eastern  women  strive  by  art  to  imitate,  in 
order  to  impart  a  voluptuous  wildness  to  their  look,  and  energy 
even  to  their  languor.  The  light  of  those  eyes  seemed  to  come 
from  a  distance  which  I  have  never  measured  in  any  other 
mortal  eye.  It  was  as  the  rays  of  the  stars,  which  seem  to  seek 
us  out,  and  to  approach  us  as  we  gaze,  and  yet  have  traveled 
millions  of  miles  through  the  heavens.  The  high  and  narrow 
forehead  seemed  as  if  compressed  by  intense  thought,  and  joined 
the  nose  by  an  almost  straight  and  Grecian  line.  The  lips 
were  thin,  and  slightly  depressed  at  the  confers  with  an  habit- 
ual expression  of  sadness ;  the  teeth  of  pearl,  rather  than  of 
ivory,  as  is  the  case  with  the  daughters  of  the  sea,  or  islands. 
The  face  was  oval,  slightly  emaciated  in  the  lower  part  and  at 
the  temples,  and,  on  the  whole,  she  seemed  rather  an  imbodying 
of  thought  than  a  human  being.  Besides  this  general  expression 
of  reverie,  there  was  a  languid  look  of  suffering  and  passion, 
which  made  it  impossible  to  gaze  once  on  that  face  without 
bearing  its  ineffaceable  image  stamped  forever  in  the  memory. 


20  RAPHAEL. 

In  a  word,  hers  was  a  contagious  sickness  of  the  soul,  vailed  ir: 
a  shape  of  beauty  the  most  majestic  and  atti active  that  the 
dreams  of  mortal  man  ever  imbodied. 

I  passed  rapidly  before  her,  bowing  respectfully,  and  my 
deferential  air  and  downcast  eyes  seemed  to  ask  forgiveness  for 
having  disturbed  her.  A  slight  blush  tinged  her  pale  cheeks  at 
my  approach.  I  returned  to  my  room,  trembling  and  wondering 
that  the  evening  air  should  thus  have  chilled  me.  A  few  minutes 
later,  I  saw  her  re-enter  the  house,  and  cast  one  indifferent  look 
at  my  window.  I  saw  her  again  on  the  following  days,  at  the 
same  hour,  both  in  the  garden  and  in  the  court,  but  never  dared 
to  think  of  accosting  her.  I  even  met  her  sometimes  near  the 
chalets,  with  the  little  girls  who  drove  her  donkey,  or  picked 
strawberries  for  her;  at  other  times,  in  her  boat  on  the  lake: 
but  I  never  showed  any  sign  of  recognition  or  interest,  beyond 
a  grave  and  respectful  bow.  She  would  return  it,  with  an  air 
of  melancholy  abstraction,  and  we  each  went  our  separate  ways, 
on  the  hills  or  on  the  waters. 

VII. — And  yet,  when  I  had  not  met  her  in  the  course  of  the 
day,  I  felt  sad  and  disturbed ;  when  evening  came,  I  would  go 
down  to  the  garden,  I  knew  not  why,  and  stay  there,  with  my 
eyes  riveted  on  her  windows,  spite  of  the  cold  night  air.  I 
could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  return  to  the  house,  until  I  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  shadow  on  the  curtains,  or  heard  a  note 
of  her  piano,  or  one  of  the  strange  tones  of  her  voice. 

The  apartment  she  occupied  was  contiguous  to  my  room,  from 
which  it  was  separated  by  a  strong  oaken  door,  with  two  bolts. 
I  could  hear  confusedly  the  sound  of  her  footsteps,  the  rustling 
of  her  gown,  or  the  crumpling  of  the  leaves  of  her  book  as  she 
turned  over  the  pages.  I  sometimes  fancied  I  heard  her  breathe. 
Instinctively  I  placed  my  writing-table,  on  which  my  lamp  stood, 
near  the  door,  for  I  felt  less  lonely  when  I  heard  these  sounds 
of  life  around  me.  'It  seemed  to  me  that  this  unknown  neighbor, 
who  insensibly  occupied  all  my  time,  shared  my  life.  In  a  word, 
before  I  had  the  slightest  idea  that  I  loved,  I  had  already  all 
the  thoughts,  the  fancies,  and  the  refinements  of  passion.  Love 
did  not  consist  for  me  in  one  particular  symptom,  look,  or  con- 
fession, in  any  one  external  circumstance  against  which  I  could 
have  fortified  myself;  it  was  as  an  invisible  miasma  diffused  in 
the  surrounding  atmosphere  ;  it  was  in  the  air  and  light,  in  the 
expiring  season,  in  my  lonely  life,  in  the  mysterious  proximity 


RAPHAEL.  iJJ 

of  another  equally  isolated  existence;  in  the  long  excursions 
which  took  me  from  her,  and  made  me  feel  the  more  forcibly 
the  unconscious  attraction  which  recalled  me ;  in  her  white 
dress,  seen  at  a  distance  through  the  mountain  firs;  in  her  dark 
hair  loosened  by  the  wind  on  the  lake ;  in  the  light  at  her  win- 
dow; in  the  alight  creaking  of  the  wooden  floor  under  her  tread  ; 
in  the  rustling  of  her  pen  on  the  paper  when  she  wrote ;  in  the 
very  silence  of  those  long  autumnal  evenings  which  she  spent  in 
reading,  writing,  or  in  thought,  within  a  few  paces  of  me  ;  and 
lastly,  in  the  fascination  of  her  fantastic  beauty,  too  much  seen 
though  scarcely  beheld,  and  which,  when  I  closed  my  eyes,  I 
etill  saw  through  the  wall,  as  though  it  had  been  transparent. 

With  this  feeling,  however,  there  mingled  no  desire  or  eager 
curiosity  on  my  part  to  find  out  the  secret  reason  of  her  solitude, 
or  to  break  down  the  fragile  barrier  of  our  almost  voluntary 
separation.  What  to  me  was  this  woman,  whom  I  had  met  by 
chance  among  the  mountains  of  a  foreign  land,  ill  in  health  and 
sick  at  heart  though  she  might  be  1  I  had  shaken  the  dust  from 
my  feet,  or  at  least  I  thought  I  had,  and  felt  no  wish  to  hold  to 
the  world  once  more,  by  any  link  of  the  mind,  or  of  the  senses, 
still  less  by  any  weakness  of  the  heart.  I  felt  supreme  con 
tempt  for  love,  for  under  its  name  I  had  met  only  with  affecta- 
tion, coquetry,  fickleness,  and  levity ;  if  I  except  the  love  of 
Antonina,  which  had  been  but  a  childish  ecstasy,  a  flower  fallen 
from  the  stem  before  its  hour  of  perfume. 

VIII. — Again  !  who  was  this  woman  1  Was  she  a  being 
like  myself,  or  one  of  those  visions  which,  like  living  meteors, 
shoot  athwart  the  sky  of  our  imagination,  dazzling  the  eye  ] 
Was  she  of  my  own  country,  or  from  some  distant  land,  from 
some  island  of  the  tropics,  or  the  far  East,  whither  I  could  not 
follow  her]  After  adoring  her  for  a  few  days,  might  I  not  have 
to  mourn  forever  her  absence  ]  Was  her  heart  free  to  respond 
to  mine  ?  Was  it  likely  that  enthralling  beauty  such  as  hers, 
should  have  traversed  the  world  and  reached  maturity,  without 
kindling  love  in  some  of  those  upon  whom  the  glance  of  her  eye 
had  fallen  ]  Had  she  a  father  or  a  mother,  brothers  or  sisters  '? 
Was  she  not  married  ]  Was  there  not  one  man  in  the  world 
who,  though  separated  from  her  by  inexplicable  circumstances, 
lived  for  her  only,  as  she  lived  for  him  ? 

A  .1  this  I  said  to  myself,  to  drive  away  this  one  besetting, 
hopeless  fancy.  I  scorned  even  to  make  inquiries.  I  was  too 


22  RAPHAEL. 

much  of  a  stoic  to  strive  to  penetrate  the  unknown,  and  thought 
it  more  dignified,  or,  perhaps,  more  pleasant,  to  go  on  dream- 
ing in  uncertainty. 

IX. — The  old  doctor  and  his  family  had  not  the  pride  of  heart 
that  induced  me  to  respect  her  secret.  At  table,  our  hosts,  with 
the  curiosity  natural  to  all  those  who  live  by  strangers,  would 
interpret  every  circumstance,  discuss  every  probability,  and  col- 
lect even  the  vaguest  notions  concerning  the  stranger.  I  soon 
learned  all  that  had  transpired  respecting  her,  although  I  never 
interrogated,  and  even  studiously  avoided  making  her  the  sub 
ject  of  our  discourse.  In  vain  I  sought  to  turn  the  conversation 
into  another  channel ;  every  day  the  same  subject  recurred ; 
men)  women,  children,  bathers  and  servants,  the  guides  of  the 
mountains,  and  the  boatmen  on  the  lake,  had  all  been  equally 
struck  and  charmed  by  her,  although  she  spoke  to  no  one.  She 
way  an  object  of  universal  respect  and  admiration. 

There  are  some  beings  who,  by  their  dazzling  radiance,  draw 
all  around  them  into  their  sphere  of  attraction,  without  desiring, 
or  even  perceiving  it.  It  seems  as  though  certain  natures  were 
like  the  suns  of  some  moral  system,  obliging  the  looks,  thoughts, 
and  hearts  of  their  satellites  to  gravitate  around  them.  Their 
moral  and  physical  beauty  is  a  spell,  their  fascination  a  chain, 
love  is  but  their  emanation.  We  track  their  upward  course 
from  earth  to  heaven,  and  when  they  vanish  in  their  youth  and 
beauty,  all  else  seems  dark  to  the  eye  that  has  been  blinded  by 
their  brilliancy.  The  vulgar,  even,  recognize  these  superioi 
beings  by  some  mysterious  sign.  They  admire  without  com 
prehending,  as  the  blind  enjoy  the  sunshine,  who  have  nevci 
seen  the  sun. 

X. — It  was  thus  I  learned  that  the  young  stranger  lived  in 
Paris.  Her  husband  was  an  old  man,  who  had  rendered  his 
name  illustrious,  at  the  close  of  the  last  century,  by  many  dis- 
coveries which  held  a  high  place  in  the  history  of  science.  He 
had  been  struck  with  the  beauty  and  talent  of  this  young  girl, 
and  had  adopted  her,  in  order  to  bequeath  to  her  his  name  and 
fortune.  She  loved  him  as  a  father,  wrote  to  him  every  day, 
and  sent  him  a  journal  of  her  feelings  and  impressions.  Two 
years  ago,  she  had  fallen  into  a  declining  state,  which  had 
alarmed  him.  She  had  been  recommended  to  remove  south- 
ward and  try  change  of  air,  and  her  husband  being  too  infirr^ 


RAPHAEL.  23 


to  accompany  her,  had  confided  her  to  the  care  of  some  friends 
from  Lausanne,  with  whom  she  had  traveled  all  over  Italy  and 
Switzerland.  The  change  had  not  restored  her  to  health,  and  a 
Genevese  doctor,  fearing  a  disease  of  the  heart,  had  recom- 
mended the  baths  of  Aix ;  he  was  to  come  to  fetch  her,  and 
take  her  back  to  Paris  at  the  beginning  of  the  winter. 

This  was  all  I  learned  of  a  life  already  so  dear.  Still  I  per- 
sisted in  fancying  that  all  these  details  were  indifferent  to  me 
I  felt  a  tender  pity  for  this  enchanting  and  beautiful  being, 
blighted  in  the  flower  of  youth  by  a  disease  which,  while  it 
consumes  life,  renders  the  sensations  more  acute,  arid  stimulates 
the  flame  which  it  is  destined  to  extinguish.  When  I  met  the 
stranger  on  the  staircase,  I  sought  to  discover  the  trace  of  her 
sufferings  in  the  scarcely-perceptible  lines  of  pain  round  her 
somewhat  pale  lips,  or  in  the  dark  circle  which  want  of  sleep 
had  left  round  her  beautiful  blue  eyes.  I  was  interested  by  her 
beauty,  but  still  more  by  the  shadow  of  death  by  which  she  was 
overcast,  and  which  made  her  appear  more  as  a  phantom  of  the 
night  than  as  a  reality.  This  was  all.  Our  lives  rolled  on ;  we 
continued  to  live  in  close  proximity,  as  far  as  distance  was  con- 
cerned ;  but  morally,  as  widely  separated  as  ever. 

XI. — I.  had  given  up  my  mountain  excursions  since  the  snow 
had  fallen  on  the  highest  peaks  of  Savoy,  for  the  gentle  warmth 
of  the  latter  days  of  October  seemed  to  have  taken  refuge  in  the 
valley;  and  on  the  banks  of  the  lake  the  weather  was  still  mild. 
The  long  avenue  of  poplars  was  my  delight,  with  its  gleams  of 
sunshine,  waving  tops,  and  murmuring  branches.  I  spent,  also, 
a  great  part  of  my  time  on  the  water.  The  boatmen  all  knew 
me,  and  I  am  told  they  still  remember  how  we  used  to  sail  into 
the  wildest  creeks  and  remotest  bays  of  France  and  Savoy. 
The  young  stranger,  too,  would  sometimes  embark  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day  for  less  distant  expeditions.  The  boatmen,  who 
were  proud  of  her  confidence,  always  took  care  to  give  her 
notice  of  the  least  symptom  of  wind  or  cold  weather,  thinking 
far  more  of  her  health  and  safety  than  of  their  own  gains.  On 
one  occasion,  however,  they  were  themselves  deceived.  They 
had  undertaken  to  row  her  safely  over  to  Haute-Combe,  on  the 
opposite  shore  of  the  lake,  in  order  to  visit  the  ruins  of  the 
Abbey.  They  had  scarcely  got  over  two-thirds  of  the  distance, 
when  a  sudden  gust  of  wind,  rushing  forth  from  the  r. arrow 
gorges  of  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  stirred  up  the  vaves  of  th« 


24  RAPHAEL. 

lake,  and  produced  one  of  those  short  seas  which  so  often  prove 
fatal.  The  sail  of  the  little  boat  was  soon  gone,  and  it  seemed 
like  a  nutshell  dancing  on  the  still-inci'easing  waves.  It  was 
impossible  to  think  of  returning,  and  full  half  an  hour  of  fatigue 
and  danger  must  elapse,  before  the  boat  could  be  moored  in 
safety  under  the  hanging  cliffs  of  Haute-Combe.  Fate  willed 
that  my  wandering  sail  should  be  on  the  lake  at  the  same  hour. 
I  was  in  a  larger  boat,  with  four  stout  oarsmen,  and  was  going 
to  visit  M.  de  Chatillon,  a  relation  of  my  Chambery  friend.  His 
chateau  was  situated  on  the  summit  of  a  rock,  in  a  small  island 
at  one  end  of  the  lake.  A  few  strokes  of  the  oar  would  have 
brought  us  into  the  harbor  of  Chatillon ;  but  I,  who  had  uncon- 
sciously been  watching  the  other  boat,  and  saw  it  struggling 
against  the  wind,  perceived  the  danger  in  which  it  was  placed. 
VVe  put  about  immediately,  and  with  one  heart  affronted  the 
tempest  and  the  dangers  of  the  lake,  to  try  and  succor  the  little 
craft,  which  every  now  and  then  disappeared,  and  was  lost  in  a 
mist  of  foam  and  spray.  My  anxiety  was  intense,  during  the 
hour  that  was  required  to  cross  the  lake,  before  we  could  join 
\he  little  bai'k.  When  we  came  up  to  it,  the  shore  was  close 
at  hand,  and  one  long  wave  lodged  it  in  safety  before  our  eyes, 
on  the  sand  at  the  foot  of  the  ruined  Abbey. 

We  shouted  for  joy,  and  rushed  through  the  water  to  the 
boat,  in  order  to  carry  the  invalid  ashore.  The  poor  boatman 
was  making*  signs  of  distress,  and  calling  for  help ;  he  was 
pointing  to  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  at  something  we  could  not 
see.  On  reaching  the  spot  where  he  stood,  we  found  that  the 
stranger  had  fainted,  and  was  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 
Her  body  and  arms  were  completely  immersed  in  water,  and 
her  head  rested  like  that  of  a  corpse  against  the  little  wooden 
chest  at  the  stern,  in  which  the  boatmen  put  their  tackle  and 
provisions.  Her  hair  streamed  in  disorder  about  her  neck  and 
shoulders,  like  the  dark  wings  of  a  lifeless  bird  floating  on  the 
surface  of  the  waters.  Her  face,  from  which  all  color  had  not 
fled,  was  calm  and  peaceful  as  in  slumber,  and  shone  with  that 
preternatural  beauty  death  leaves  on  the  countenance  of  those 
who  die  young ;  like  the  last  and  fairest  ray  of  retiring  life, 
lingering  on  the  brow  from  which  it  is  about  to  depart,  or  the 
first  beam  of  dawning  immortality,  on  the  features  which  are 
henceforward  to  be  hallowed  in  the  memory  of  those  who  sur- 
vive. I  had  never  before,  and  have  never  since,  seen  her  sr. 
divinely  transfigured.  Was  death  the  most  perfect  form  of  her 


RAPHAEL. 


celestial  beauty,  or  did  Providence  intend  this  first  and  solemn 
impression,  as  a  foreshadowing  of  that  unchangeable  image  of 
beauty,  which  I  was  destined  to  entomb  in  my  memory,  and 
eternally  evoke? 

We  jumped  into  the  boat,  to  take  up  the  apparently  dying 
woman,  and  carry  her  beyond  the  rocks.  I  placed  my  hand 
upon  her  heart,  and  approached  my  ear  to  her  lips,  as  I  would 
to  those  of  a  sleeping  infant.  The  heart  beat  irregularly,  but 
with  strong  pulsations ;  the  breath  was  warm,  and  I  saw  that 
she  had  only  fainted  from  terror  and  from  cold.  One  of  the 
boatmen  took  up  her  feet,  I  supported  the  shoulders  and  the 
head,  which  rested  on  my  breast.  She  gave  no  sign  of  life 
while  we  carried  her  thus  to  a  fisherman's  house,  below  the 
rocks  of  Haute-Combe,  which  serves  as  an  inn  for  the  boatmen, 
when  they  conduct  strangers  to  the  ruins.  This  poor  dwelling 
consisted  merely  in  one  long,  dark,  smoky  room,  furnished  with 
a  table  upon  which  were  wine,  bread,  and  cheese.  A  wooden 
ladder  led  to  an  upper  room,  which  was  lighted  by  a  single 
round  window,  without  glass,  looking  toward  the  lake.  Almost 
the  whole  space  of  this  room  was  occupied  by  three  beds,  whr.-h 
could  be  closed  up  by  wooden  doors,  like  large  presses.  Tv  e 
whole  family  slept  there.  We  confided  the  stranger,  who  was 
<still  insensible,  to  the  cai'e  of  the  two  girls  of  the  house  and  thoir 
mother,  and  we  stood  outside  the  door,  while  they  extended  a 
mattress  near  the  chimney,  and  having  lighted  a  fire  of  fur^.e, 
undressed  her,  dried  her  clothes,  chafed  her  limbs,  and  wrung 
her  streaming  hair;  they  then  carried  her  up-stairs,  and  placed 
her  in  one  of  the  beds,  on  which  they  had  spread  clean  sheets, 
which  had  been  warmed  with  one  of  the  heated  hearth  stones, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  peasants  of  that  country.  They 
tried  in  vain  to  make  her  swallow  a  few  drops  of  wine  and 
vinegar  to  bring  her  to  life  ;  but  finding  all  their  efforts  unavail- 
ing, gave  way  to  tears  and  lamentations,  which  soon  recalled 
us  into  the  house.  "  The  lady  is  dead  !  the  lady  is  dead  !  We 
can  only  weep,  and  send  for  a  priest."  The  boatmen  mingled 
their  cries  with  those  of  the  women,  and  increased  the  confu- 
sion. I  rushed  up  the  ladder  and  entered  the  room.  The  dim 
twilight  still  showed  the  bed  over  which  I  bent.  I  touched  her 
forehead  ;  it  was  burning  hot ;  I  could  distinguish  the  low  and 
regular  breathing  which  made  the  coarse  brown  sheet  alter- 
nately rise  and  fall  on  the  chest ;  I  bid  the  women  be  quiet,  and 
giving  some  money  to  one  of  the  boatmen,  ordered  him  to  fetch 

B 


RAPHAEL. 


a  doctor,  who,  I  was  told,  lived  two  leagues  off,  in  a  little  vil 
lage  on  the  Mont  du  Chat.  The  boatman  set  off  at  full  speed, 
the  others,  comforted  by  the  assurance  that  the  lady  was  not 
dead,  sat  down  to  eat.  The  women  went  and  came  from  the 
parlor  to  the  cellar,  and  from  I  he  cellar  to  the  poultry-yard,  tc 
make  pi'eparations  for  supper.  I  remained  seated  on  one  of 
the  bags  of  Indian  corn  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  my  hands  clasped 
on  my  knees,  and  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  inanimate  face  and 
closed  eyelids  of  the  sufferer.  Night  had  closed  in.  One  of  the 
young  girls  had  fastened  the  shutter,  and  suspended  a  small 
copper  lamp  against  the  wall ;  its  rays  fell  on  the  sheets  and  on 
the  sleeping  countenance,  like  the  light  of  holy  tapers  on  a 
death-bed.  Since  then,  ]  have  thus  watched,  alas !  by  other 
bedsides,  but  the  sleepers  n^ver  woke ! 

XII. — Never  perhaps  was  t'.ie  heart  of  man  absorbed  for  so 
many  long  hours  in  one  strange  and  overwhelming  speculation. 
Suspended  between  death  and  love,  I  was  unable  to  divine,  as 
I  gazed  on  the  angel  form  that  lay  sleeping  before  me,  whether 
t'uis  night  in  its  mystery  would  bring  forth  endless  anguish,  or 
whether  undying  love  would  come  in  the  morning,  with  return- 
ing life  and  joy.  In  the  convulsive  movements  of  her  ti'oubled 
sleep,  she  had  thrown  the  sheet  off  one  of  her  shoulders,  upon 
which  fell  the  long  luxuriant  curls  of  her  lustrous  hair.  The 
neck  had  yielded  to  the  weight  of  the  head  which  was  thrown 
back  on  the  pillow,  and  slightly  inclined  toward  the  left  shoul- 
der ;  one  of  the  arms  was  disengaged  from  the  coverlid,  and  was 
placed  beneath  the  head,  showing  the  ivory  whiteness  of  the 
elbow,  which  stood  out  on  the  coarse  brown  linen  in  which  the 
peasant  women  had  dressed  her.  On  one  of  the  fingers  of  the 
hand,  which  was  half  concealed  in  the  masses  of  dark  hair,  there 
was  a  small  gold  ring  with  a  sparkling  ruby,  on  which  the  rays 
of  the  lamp  flashed.  The  girls  had  lain  down  on  the  floor 
without  undressing,  and  their  mother  had  fallen  asleep  with  her 
hands  folded  on  the  back  of  a  wooden  chair.  As  soon  as  the 
cock  crowed  in  the  yard,  they  got  up,  and  taking  their  wooden 
shoes  in  their  hands,  noiselessly  descended  the  ladder  to  go  to 
work.  I  remained  alone. 

The  first  gleams  of  dawn  came  through  the  closed  shutter  in 
almost  imperceptible  streaks  of  light.  I  opened  the  window  in 
the  hope  that  the  balmy  morning  air  from  the  lake  and  mount- 
ains, which  awakei.ed  all  nature,  would  have  the  same  effect  on 


RAPHAEL.  27 

one,  whom  I  would  willingly  have  revived  at  the  cost  of  my  own 
life.  The  chill  air  rushed  into  the  room,  and  extinguished  the 
expiring  lamp.  Nothing  stirred  on  the  bed.  I  heard  the  poot 
women  below  joining  in  common  prayer,  before  commencing 
their  day's  labor.  The  thought  of  praying  likewise,  entered  my 
heart.  I  felt,  as  all  do  who  have  exhausted  the  whole  strength 
of  their  soul,  the  wish  to  superadd  the  force  of  some  mysterious 
and  preterhuman  power,  to  the  impotent  tension  of  my  ardent 
desires.  I  knelt  on  the  floor,  with  my  hands  clasped  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  and  my  eyes  riveted  on  the  face  of  the  sleeper. 
I  wept,  and  prayed  long  and  fervently  ;  the  tears  chased  each 
other  down  my  face,  and  hid  from  my  blinded  eyes  the  features 
of  the  one,  whose  recovery  I  so  ardently  desired.  My  whole 
heart  and  soul  were  so  absorbed  in  one  feeling,  and  one  sensa- 
tion, that  I  might  have  remained  hours  in  the  same  attitude, 
without  being  aware  of  the  lapse  of  time,  or  the  pain  of  kneeling 
on  the  stone  floor ;  when  suddenly,  while  I  was  unconsciously 
wiping  away  my  te'ars,  I  felt  a  hand  touch  mine,  part  the  hair 
from  my  face,  and  gently  rest  upon  my  head,  as  if  to  bless  me. 
I  looked  up  with  a  cry  of  delight ;  I  saw  her  unclosed  eyes, 
her  smiling  lips,  her  hand  extended  toward  mine,  and  heard 
these  words  :  "  Oh  God  !  I  thank  the  !  I  have  now  a  brother  !" 

XIII. — The  cool  morning  air  had  awakened  her,  while  I  was 
praying  by  her  bedside,  with  my  face  buried  in  my  hands.  She 
had  noted  my  ardent  pity,  and  my  ardent  prayer,  and  had 
recognized  me  by  the  clear  light  of  morning,  which  now 
streamed  into  the  chamber.  When  she  had  fainted,  she  was 
lonely  and  indifferent,  and  had  revived  under  the  tender  care, 
and  perhaps  the  love,  of  a  pitying  stranger.  She,  who,  in  the 
neglected  flower  of  her  days  had  been  deprived  of  all  the 
kindred  ties  of  the  heart,  had  unexpectedly  found  in  me,  the 
care  and  pity,  the  tears  and  prayers,  of  a  youthful  brother;  and 
that  tender  name  had  escaped  her  lips,  at  the  moment  that 
returning  life  gave  her  the  consciousness  of  so  great  a  joy. 

"  A  brother !  Ah,  no,  not  a  brother  !"  I  exclaimed,  reverently 
removing  her  hand  from  my  brow,  as  though  I  had  not  been 
worthy  of  her  touch,  "  not  a  brother,  but  a  slave  !  a  living 
shadow  following  on  your  steps,  who  asks  but  one  blessing  of 
heaven,  and  one  felicity  on  earth — the  right  of  remembering 
this  night ;  who  only  desires  to  preserve  eternally  the  image  of 
the  superhuman  vision  he  would  wish  to  follow  unto  death,  01 


28  R  A  P  H  A  Efc. 

for  whom  alone  lie  could  bear  to  live."  As  I  faltered  out  these 
words  in  a  low  voice,  the  rosy  tints  of  life  gradually  re-appeared 
on  her  cheeks,  a  sad  smile,  implying  an  obstinate  unbelief  in 
happiness,  played  round  her  mouth,  and  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
the  ceiling,  as  though  they  listened  to  words  which  responded 
not  to  the  ear,  but  to  the  thoughts.  Never  was  the  change  from 
life  to  death,  from  a  dream  to  reality,  so  rapid;  on  her  counte- 
nance, now  blooming  with  youth  and  refreshed  by  rest,  surprise, 
languor,  delight,  repose,  joy  and  melancholy,  timidity  and  grace, 
were  all  painted  in  quick  succession.  Her  radiance  seemed 
to  illumine  the  dark  recess  more  than  the  light  of  morning. 
There  was  more  languor,  more  revealings,  more  sympathy  in 
her  looks  and  silence,  than  in  millions  of  words.  The  human 
face  speaks  a  language  to  the  eye,  and  in  youth,  the  countenance 
is  an  instrument  of  which  one  look  of  passion  sweeps  the  keys. 
It  transmits  from  soul  to  soul  mysteries  of  mute  communion, 
which  can  not  be  translated  into  words.  My  countenance,  too, 
must  have  revealed  what  I  felt,  to  those  eyes  which  were  bent 
so  earnestly  upon  me.  My  damp  clothes,  my  long  disheveled 
hair,  my  eyes  heavy  with  watching,  my  pale  and  anxious  looks, 
the  pious  enthusiasm  with  which  I  bent  before  the  holiness  of 
Buffering  beauty,  my  emotion,  joy,  and  surprise,  the  dimness  of 
the  room  in  which  1  durst  not  take  a  step,  for  fear  of  dispelling 
the  enchantment  of  so  divine  a  dream,  the  first  rays  of  the  sun, 
which  showed  the  tears  still  glistening  in  my  eyes,  all  conspired 
to  lend  to  my  countenance  a  power  of  expression,  and  a  look  of 
tenderness,  which  it  will  doubtless  never  wear  again  in  the  course 
of  a  long  life. 

Unable  to  bear  any  longer  the  re-action  of  these  feelings,  and 
the  internal  vibration  of  such  silence,  I  called  up  the  women. 
On  entering  the  room,  they  broke  out  into  repeated  exclama- 
tions of  surprise,  at  the  sight  of  a  resurrection  which  appeared 
to  them  a  miracle.  At  the  same  moment  the  doctoi  made  his 
appearance.  He  prescribed  repose,  and  an  infusion  of  certain 
plants  of  the  mountain,  which  allay  the  irregular  movements  of 
the  heart.  He  reassured  every  one,  by  telling  us  that  the  lady's 
malady  was  one  of  youth,  produced  by  excessive  sensibility, 
and  which  time  would  mitigate ;  that  it  was  but  a  superabun- 
dance of  life,  although  it  often  wore  the  appearance  of  death ; 
and  was  never  fatal,  except  when  inward  grief  or  some  moral 
cause  changed  its  character  into  one  of  habitual  melancholy,  01 
an  unconquerable  distaste  for  life.  While  some  of  the  vvoracr 


RAPHAEL.  20 


went  out  into  the  fields,  to  gather  the  simples  ordered  by  the 
doctor,  and  others  were  ironing  out  her  damp  clothes  in  the? 
lower  room,  I  left  the  house  to  wander  alone  among  the  ruins 
of  the  old  Abbey. 

XIV. — But  my  heart  was  too  full  of  its  own  emotions  to  feel 
interested  in  the  anchorites  of  the  Abbey.  The  enthusiasm  and 
self-denial  of  the  early  monasteries  had  subsided  into  a  profes- 
sion ;  and  at  a  later  period,  their  lives,  unlinked  with  those  of 
their  fellow-beings,  had  fruitlessly  evaporated  within  these  clois- 
ters, and  left  no  trace  Lehind.  I  felt  no  regret  as  I  stood  upon 
their  tombs,  but  only  wondered,  as  I  noted  how  speedily  Nature 
seizes  on  the  empty  dwellings  and  deserted  abodes  of  man,  and 
how  superior  is  the  living  architecture  of  shrubs  and  briers, 
waving  ivy,  wall-flowers,  and  creeping  plants,  throwing  their 
mantle  on  the  ruined  walls,  to  the  cold  symmetry  of  stones,  or 
the  lifeless  ornaments  of  the  chiseled  monuments  of  men. 

There  was  now  more  sunshine,  music,  and  peifume,  more 
holy  psalmody  of  the  winds  and  waters,  of  birds,  and  sonorous 
echoes  of  the  lakes  and  forests,  beneath  the  crumbling  pillars, 
dismantled  nave,  and  shattered  roof  of  the  empty  Abbey,  than 
there  had  been  holy  tapers,  fumes  of  incense,  and  monotonous 
chants,  in  the  ceremonies  and  processions  that  filled  it  night  and 
day.  Nature  is  the  high  priest,  the  noblest  decorator,  the  holi- 
est poej,  and  most  inspired  musician  of  God.  The  young  swal- 
lows in  their  nest  below  the  broken  cornice,  greeting  their 
mother  with  their  cheerful  chirping ;  the  sighing  of  the  breeze, 
which  seems  to  bear  to  the  unpeopled  cloisters  the  sound  of 
flapping  sails,  the  lament  of  the  waves,  and  the  dying  notes  of 
the  fisherman's  song;  the  balmy  emanations  which  now  and 
then  are  wafted  through  the  nave;  the  flowers  which  shed  their 
leaves  upon  the  tombs,  the  waving  of  the  green  drapery  which 
clothes  the  walls,  the  sonorous  and  reverberated  echoes  of  the 
stranger's  steps  upon  the  vaults  where  sleep  the  dead,  are  all 
as  full  of  piety,  holy  thoughts,  and  unbounded  aspirations,  as 
was  the  monastery  in  its  days  of  sacred  splendor.  Man  is  nc 
longer  there,  with  all  his  miserable  passions  contracted  by  the 
narrow  pale  in  which  they  were  confined,  but  not  extinguished; 
but  God  is  there,  never  so  plainly  seen  as  in  the  works  of  na- 
ture ;  God  whose  unshadowed  splendor  seems  to  re-enter  once 
more  these  intellectual  graves,  whose  vaulted  roofs  no  longei 
intercept  the  glorious  sunshine,  and  the  light  of  heaven. 


30  RAPHAEL. 

XV. — I  was  not  at  the  time  sufficiently  composed  to  under- 
stand my  own  feelings.  I  felt  as  one  just  relieved  from  a  heavy 
burthen,  who  breathes  freely,  relaxes  his  contracted  muscles, 
and  walks  to  and  fro  in  his  strength,  as  though  he  could  devour 
space,  and  inhale  all  the  air  of  heaven.  My  own  heart  was 
the  burthen  of  which  I  had  been  relieved,  and  in  giving  it  to 
another,  T  felt  as  if  I  had  for  the  first  time  entered  into  the  full- 
ness of  life.  Man  is  so  truly  born  to  love,  that  it  is  only  when 
he  has  the  consciousness  of  loving  fully  and  entirely,  that  he 
feels  himself  really  a  man.  Until  then,  he  is  disturbed  and 
restless,  inconstant  and  wandering  in  his  thoughts ;  but  from 
thenceforward  all  his  waverings  cease,  he  feels  at  rest,  and  sees 
his  destiny  before  him. 

i  sat  down  upon  the  ivy-covered  wall  of  a  high,  dilapidated 
terrace,  which  overlooked  the  lake.  My  eyes  wandered  over 
the  bright  expanse  of  water  and  the  luminous  immensity  of  the 
sky  ;  they  were  so  well  blended  in  the  azure  line  of  the  horizon, 
that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  define  where  the  sky 
commenced,  and  where  the  lake  terminated.  I  seemed  to  float 
in  the  pure  ether,  or  to  be  merged  in  a  universal  ocean.  But 
the  inward  joy  which  inundated  my  soul  was  far  more  infinite, 
radiant,  and  incommensurate,  than  the  atmosphere  with  which 
I  seemed  to  mingle.  I  could  not  have  defined  my  joy,  or  rather 
my  inward  serenity.  It  was  as  somo  unfathomable  secret  re- 
vealed to  me  by  feelings  instead  of  words — as  the  sensation  of 
the  eye  passing  from  darkness  into  light,  or  as  the  rapture  of 
some  mystical  soul,  secure  in  the  possession  of  its  God.  It  was 
dazzling  light,  intoxication  without  giddiness,  repose  without 
heaviness  or  immobility.  I  could  have  lived  on  thus  during  as 
many  thousand  years  as  there  were  ripples  on  the  lake,  or  sands 
upon  its  shores,  without  perceiving  that  more  seconds  had 
elapsed  than  were  required  for  a  single  aspiration.  When  the 
immortal  dwellers  in  heaven  first  lose  the  consciousness  of  the 
duration  of  time,  they  must  feel  thus ;  it  was  an  immutable 
thought,  in  the  eternity  of  an  instant. 

XVI. — These  sensations  were  not  precise,  or  definable. 
They  wei-e  too  complete  to  be  scanned  ;  thought  could  not 
divide,  or  reflection  analyze  them.  They  did  not  take  their 
rise  in  the  loveliness  of  the  superhuman  creature  that  I  adored, 
for  the  shadow  of  death  still  lay  between  her  beauty  and  my 
eyes ; — or  in  the  pric"e  of  being  loved  by  her,  for  I  know  not 


RAPHAEL.  31 

if  I  was  more  in  her  sight  than  a  dream  of  morning; — or  in  the 
hope  of  possessing  her  charms,  for  my  respect  was  too  far  above 
such  vile  gratification  of  the  senses,  even  to  stoop  to  them  in 
thought ;  or  in  the  satisfaction  of  displaying  my  triumph,  for 
selfish  vanity  held  no  place  in  my  heart,  and  I  knew  no  one  in 
that  secluded  spot  before  whom  I  could  profane  my  love  by 
disclosing  it ;  or  in  the  hope  of  linking  her  fate  with  mine,  for  I 
knew  she  was  another's ;  or  in  the  certainty  of  seeing  her,  and 
the  happiness  of  following  her  steps,  for  I  was  as  little  free  as  she 
was,  and  in  a  few  days  fate  was  to  divide  us;  nor,  lastly,  in  the  cer- 
tainty of  being  beloved,  for  I  knew  nothing  of  her  heart,  except 
the  one  word  and  look  of  gratitude  that  she  had  addressed  to  me. 

Mine  was  another  feeling ;  pure,  calm,  disinterested  and 
immaterial.  It  was  repose  of  the  heart,  after  having  met  with 
the  long  sought-for,  and  till  then  unfound,  object  of  its  restless 
adoration ;  the  long  desired  idol  of  that  vague,  unquiet  adora- 
tion of  supreme  beauty,  which  agitates  the  soul  until  the 
divinity  has  been  discovered,  and  that  our  heart  has  clung  to 
it  as  a  straw  to  the  magnet,  or  mingled  with  it  as  our  sighs 
with  the  surrounding  air. 

Strange  to  say,  I  felt  no  impatience  to  see  her  once  more,  to 
hear  her  voice,  to  be  near  her,  or  to  converse  freely  with  one 
who  had  become  the  sole  object  of  my  life  and  thoughts.  I 
had  seen  her,  and  she  had  become  part  of  myself.  Hence- 
forward nothing  could  rob  my  soul  of  its  possession ;  far  or 
near,  present  or  absent,  I  bore  her  with  me ;  all  else  was  in- 
different. Perfect  love  is  patient,  because  it  is  absolute,  and 
knows  itself  to  be  eternal.  No  power  could  tear  her  from  my 
heart.  I  felt  that  henceforward  her  image  was  completely 
mine  ;  it  was  to  me  what  light  is  to  the  eye  that  has  once  seen 
it,  air  to  the  lungs  that  have  once  inhaled  it,  or  thought  to  the 
mind  in  which  it  has  once  been  conceived.  I  defied  Heaven 
itself  to  rob  me  of  this  divine  imbodying  of  my  desires.  I  had 
seen  her,  and  that  was  enough !  For  the  contemplative,  to  see 
is  to  enjoy  !  It  scarcely  mattered  to  me  whether  she  loved  n-°, 
or  whether  she  passed  me  by  without  perceiving  me.  I  had 
been  touched  by  her  splendor,  and  was  still  enveloped  in  her 
rays :  she  could  no  more  withdraw  them  from  me,  than  the 
Sun  can  take  from  the  earth  the  beams  which  he  has  shed  upon 
it.  I  felt  that  darkness  and  night  had  fled  forever  from  my 
heart,  and  that  she  would  evermore  shine  there,  as  she  then 
»bonef  though  I  lived  for  a  thousand  years. 

&Ctf 


fii 

' 


RAPHAEL. 


XVII. — This  conviction  gave  to  my  love  all  the  security  of 
immutability,  the  calm  of  certainty,  the  overflowing  ecstasy  ol 
joy,  that  would  never  be  impaired.  I  took  no  note  of  time. 
Knowing  that  I  had  before  me  hours  without  end,  and  that  each 
in  succession  would  give  rne  back  her  inward  presence.  1 
might  be  separated  from  her  during  a  century,  without  reducing 
by  one  day  the  eternity  of  my  love.  I  went,  and  came ;  sat 
down,  and  got  up  again.  I  ran,  then  stopped,  and  walked  on 
without  feeling  the  ground  beneath  my  feet,  like  those  phantoms 
which  glide  upon  earth,  upheld  by  their  impalpable  etherial 
nnture.  I  extended  my  arms  to  grasp  the  air,  the  light,  the 
lake ;  I  would  have  clasped  all  Nature  in  one  vast  embrace,  in 
/thankfulness  that  she  had  become  incarnate,  for  me,  in  a  being 
that  united  all  her  charms  and  splendor,  power,  and  delights.  I 
knelt  on  the  stones  and  briars  of  the  ruins  without  feeling  them,  and 
on  the  brink  of  precipices  without  perceiving  them  !  I  uttered 
inarticulate  words,  which  were  lost  in  the  sound  of  the  noisy 
waters  of  the  lake ;  I  strove  to  pierce  the  vaults  of  heaven,  and 
to  carry  my  song  of  gratitude,  and  my  ecstasy  of  joy,  into  the 
very  presence  of  God  !  I  was  no  longer  a  man,  I  was  a  living 
hymn  of  praise,  prayer,  adoration,  worship,  of  overflowing,  speech- 
less thankfulness.  I  felt  an  intoxication  of  the  heart,  a  madness 
of  the  soul;  my  body  had  lost  the  consciousness  of  its  materiality, 
and  I  no  longer  believed  in  time,  or  space,  or  death.  The  new 
life  of  love  which  had  gushed  forth  in  my  heart,  gave  me  the  con- 
sciousness, the  anticipated  enj  oyment  of  the  fullness  of  immortality. 

XVIII. — I  was  made  aware  of  the  flight  of  time  by  seeing 
the  meridian  sun  striking  on  the  summit  of  the  Abbey  walls. 
I  came  down  the  hill  through  the  woods,  bounding  from  rock 
to  rock,  and  from  tree  to  tree.  My  heart  beat  as  though  it 
would  burst.  As  I  approached  the  little  inn,  I  saw  the  stranger 
in  a  sloping  meadow  behind  the  house.  She  was  seated  at  the 
foot  of  a  sunny  wall,  against  which  the  inhabitants  of  the  place  had 
piled  a  few  stones.  Her  white  dress  shone  out  on  the  verdant 
meadow,  and  the  shade  of  a  haystack  screened  her  face  from  the 
sun.  She  was  reading  in  a  little  book  that  lay  open  on  her  lap, 
and  every  now  and  then  interrupted  her  reading  to  play  with  the 
children  from  the  mountain,  who  came  to  offer  her  flowers,  or 
chestnuts.  On  seeing  me,  she  attempted  to  rise,  as  if  to  meet 
me  half-way,  and  her  gesture  was  quite  sufficient  to  encourage 
me  to  approach.  She  received  me  with  a  blushing  look  and 


RAPHAEL.  33 

tremulous  lip,  which  I  perceived,  and  which  increased  my  own 
bashfuluess.  The  strangeness  of  our  situation  was  so  embar- 
rassing, that  we  remained  some  time  without  finding  a  word  tc 
say  to  each  other.  At  last,  with  a  timid  and  scarcely  intelli- 
gible gesture,  she  motioned  me  to  sit  down  on  the  hay,  not  f'ai 
from  her ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  had  expected  me,  and  had 
kept  a  place  for  me.  I  sat  down  respectfully  at  some  distance. 
Our  silence  remained  unbroken,  and  it  was  evident  that  we 
were  both  ineffectually  seeking  to  exchange  some  of  those 
common-place  phrases  which  may  be  called  the  base  coin  of 
conversation,  and  serve  to  conceal  thoughts  instead  of  revealing 
them.  Fearing  to  say  too  much  or  too  little,  we  gave  no 
utterance  to  what  was  in  our  hearts  ;  we  remained  mute,  and 
our  silence  increased  our  embarrassment.  At  length  our  down- 
cast eyes  were  raised  at  the  same  moment,  and  met ;  I  saw  such 
depth  of  sensibility  in  hers,  and  she  read  in  mine  so  much  sup- 
pressed rapture,  truth,  and  deep  feeling,  that  we  could  no 
longer  take  them  off  each  other's  face,  and  tears  rising  to  our 
eyes,  at  the  same  instant,  from  both  our  hearts,  we  each  in 
stinctively  put  up  our  hands  as  if  to  vail  our  thoughts. 

I  know  not  how  long  we  remained  thus.  At  last,  in  a  trem 
bling  voice,  and  with  a  somewhat  constrained  and  impatien-1 
tone,  she  said  :  "  You  have  wept  over  me ;  I  have  called  yon 
brother,  you  have  adopted  me  for  your  sister,  and  yet  we  dare 
not  look  at  each  other  ]  A  tear,"  she  added,  "  a  disinterested 
tear  from  an  unknown  heart  is  more  than  my  life  is  worth  ! — • 
more  than  it  has  ever  yet  called  forth  !"  Then  with  a  slightly 
repi-oachful  accent,  she  said  :'  "  Am  I  then  become  once  more 
a  stranger  to  you,  since  I  no  longer  require  care  ]  Oh  !  as  to 
me,"  she  proceeded,  in  a  resolute  tone  of  confidence,  "  I  know 
nothing  of  you  but  your  name  and  countenance,  but  I  know 
your  heart.  A  century  could  not  tpach  me  more  !" 

"  For  my  part,"  said  I,  falteringly,  "  I  would  wish  to  learn 
nothing,  of  all  that  makes  you  a  being  like  unto  ourselves,  and 
bound  by  the  same  links  as  us  to  this  wretched  world.  I  re- 
quire but  to  know  this :  that  you  have  traversed  it,  and  that 
you  have  allowed  me  to  contemplate  you  from  afar,  and  tc 
remember  you  always  !" 

"  Oh  !  do  not  deceive  yourself  thus,"  she  replied ;  "  do  not 
see  in  me  a  deified  delusion  of  your  own  heart,  I  should  have 
to  suffer  too  much  when  the  chimera  vanished.  View  me  as  I 
am;  as  a  poor  woman,  who  is  dying  in  despondency  and  soli- 


31  RAPHAEL. 

tude,  and  who  will  take  with  her  from  earth  no  feeling  more 
divine  than  that  of  pity.  You  will  understand  this,  when  I  tell 
you  who  I  am,"  added  she;  "but  first  answer  me  on  one  point, 
which  has  disquieted  me  since  the  day  I  first  saw  you  in  thn 
garden.  Why,  young  and  gentle  as  you  seem  to  be,  are  you 
so  lonely  and  so  sad  1  Why  do  you  fly  from  the  company  and 
conversation  of  our  host,  to  wander  alone  on  the  lake,  and  in 
the  most  secluded  parts  of  the  mountains,  or  to  retire  into  your 
room]  Your  light  burns  far  in  the  night,  I  am  told.  Have 
you  some  secret  in  your  heart  that  you  confide  to  solitude  ]" 
She  waited  my  answer  with  visible  anxiety,  and  kept  her  eyes 
closed,  as  if  to  conceal  the  impression  it  might  make  upon  her. 
"My  secret,"  said  I,  "is  to  have  none;  to  feel  the  weight  of  a 
heart  that  no  enthusiasm  upheld  until  this  hour ;  of  a  heart  which 
I  have  endeavored  to  engage  in  unsatisfactory  attachments,  and 
which  I  have  ever  been  obliged  to  resume  with  such  bitterness 
and  loathing,  as  forever  to  discourage  me,  young  and  feeling 
as  I  am,  from  loving."  I  then  told  her,  without  concealment, 
as  I  would  have  spoken  before  heaven,  of  all  that  could  interest 
her  in  my  life ;  1  related  my  birth,  my  humble  and  poor  con- 
dition ;  I  spoke  of  my  father,  a  soldier  of  former  days ;  my 
mother,  a  woman  of  exquisite  sensibility,  whose  youth  had  been 
passed  in  all  the  refinement  and  elegance  of  letters ;  my  young 
sisters,  their  pious  and  angelic  simplicity ;  I  mentioned  my 
education  among  the  children  of  my  native  mountains;  my 
ready  enthusiasm  for  study ;  my  involuntary  inaction ;  my 
travels;  my  first  thrill  of  the  heart  beside  the  youthful  daughter 
of  the  Neapolitan  fisherman  ;  the  unprofitable  acquaintances  I 
formed  in  Paris, — the  levity,  misconduct,  and  self-abasement 
which  had  been  the  result ;  my  desire  for  a  soldier's  life,  which 
poace  had  counteracted  the  very  time  I  entered  the  army;  my 
leaving  my  regiment,  my  wanderings  without  an  object;  my 
hopeless  return  to  the  paternal  roof;  my  wasting  melancholy, 
my  wish  to  die;  my  weariness  of  every  thing;  and  lastly,  1 
spoke  of  my  physical  languor,  proceeding  from  heaviness  of  the 
soul,  and  of  that  premature  decrepitude  of  the  heart,  and  dis- 
taste of  life,  which  was  concealed  beneath  the  appearance  and 
features  of  a  man  of  four-and-twenty.  I  dwelt  with  inward 
satisfaction  on  the  disappointments,  weariness,  and  bitterness 
of  my  life,  for  I  no  longer  felt  them!  A  single  look  had  re- 
generated me.  I  spoke  of  myself  as  of  one  that  was  dead;  a 
new  man  was  born  within  me.  When  I  had  ended  I  raised  mv 


RAPHAEL.  35 

eyes  to  her,  as  toward  my  judge.  She  was  trembling  arid  pale 
with  emotion.  "  Heavens,"  she  exclaimed,  "  how  you  alarmed 
me."  "  And  why  ?"  said  I. 

"Because,"  she  rejoined,  "if  you  had  not  been  unhappy  and 
lonely  here  below,  there  would  have  been  one  link  the  less  be- 
tween us.  You  would  have  felt  no  desire  to  pity  another,  and 
I  should  have  quitted  life  without  having  seen  a  shadow  of  my- 
self, save  in  the  heartless  mirror  where  my  own  cold  image  ia 
reflected." 

"  The  history  of  yonr  life,"  she  continued,  "  is  the  history  of 
mine,  with  the  change  of  a  few  particulars.  Only  yours  com- 
mences, and  mine — "  I  would  not  let  her  conclude.  "  No, 
no  !"  said  I,  hoarsely,  pressing  my  lips  to  her  feet,  which  I  em- 
braced convulsively,  as  if  to  hold  her  down  to  earth  ;  "  no,  no  ' 
you  will  not,  must  not  die ;  or,  if  you  do,  I  feel  two  lives  will 
end  at  once !" 

I  was  alarmed  at  my  own  gesture,  and  at  the  exclamation 
which  had  involuntarily  escaped  me ;  and  I  durst  not  raise  my 
face  off  the  ground,  from  which  she  had  withdrawn  her  feet. 
"  Rise,"  she  said,  in  a  grave  voice,  but  without  anger ;  "  do  not 
worship  dust;  dust  as  lowly  as  that  in  which  you  are  soiling 
your  bright  hail1,  and  which  will  be  scattei'ed  as  light  and  as  im- 
palpable by  the  first  autumnal  wind.  Do  not  deceive  yourself 
as  to  the  poor  creature  you  see  before  you.  I  am  but  the  shad- 
ow of  youth,  of  beauty,  and  of  love ;  of  the  love  you  will  one 
day  feel  and  inspire,  when  this  shadow  shall  long  have  passed 
away.  Keep  your  heart  for  those  who  are  to  live,  and  only  give 
to  the  dying  what  the  dying  ask,  a  gentle  hand  to  support  their 
last  steps,  and  tears  to  mourn  their  loss !" 

The  grave  and  serious  tone  with  which  she  said  these  words 
struck  to  my  heart.  Yet  as  I  looked  on  her,  and  saw  the  glow- 
ing tints  of  the  setting  sun  illumining  her  face,  which  shone 
with  hourly  increasing  youth  and  serenity  of  expression,  as 
though  a  new  sun  had  risen  in  her  heart,  I  could  not  believe  in 
death,  concealed  under  these  glorious  signs  of  life.  Besides, 
what  cared  I  ]  If  that  heavenly  vision  was  death,  well !  it  was 
death  I  loved !  It  might  be  that  the  vast  and  perfect  love  for 
which  I  thirsted  was  only  to  be  found  in  death  !  It  might,  be 
that  God  had  only  showed  me  its  nearly  extinguished  light  on 
earth,  to  urge  me  to  follow  the  trace  of  its  ray  into  the  grave, 
and  from  thence  to  Heaven  ! 

"  Do  not  stay  dreaming  thus,"  she  said,  "  but  listen  to  me !' 


3t>  RAPHAEL. 


This  was  not  said  with  the  accent  of  one  who  loves,  and  affects 
a  sportive  seriousness,  but  with  the  tone  of  a  still  youthful  moth- 
er, or  an  elder  sister  counseling  a  brother  or  a  son :  "  I  do  noi 
wish  you  to  attach  yourself  to  a  false  appearance,  a  delusion,  a 
dream ;  I  wish  you  to  know  her  to  whom  you  so  rashly  pledge 
a  heart  which  she  could  only  retain  by  deceiving  you.  False- 
hood has  always  been  so  odious  and  so  impossible  to  me  that  I 
could  not  desire  the  supreme  felicity  of  Heaven  if  I  must  enter 
Heaven  by  deceit.  Stolen  happiness  would  not  be  happiness 
for  me,  it  would  be  remorse." 

As  she  spoke  there  was  so  much  candor  on  her  lips,  so  much 
sincerity  in  her  tone,  and  limpid  purity  in  her  eyes,  that  I  fan- 
cied as  I  looked  at  her,  that  under  her  pure  and  lovely  form  1 
saw  immortal  Truth,  in  the  broad  light  of day,  pouring  her  voice 
into  the  ear,  her  look  into  the  eye,  and  her  soul  into  the  heart 
1  stretched  myself  on  the  hay  at  her  feet,  and,  with  my  elbow 
leaning  on  the  ground,  I  rested  my  head  upon  my  hand :  my 
eyes  were  riveted  upon  her  lips,  of  which  I  strove  not  to  lose  a 
single  motion,  a  single  modulation,  or  a  single  sigh. 

XIX. — "  I  was  born,"  she  said,  "  in  the  same  land  as  Virgin- 
ia (for  the  poet's  fancy  has  given  a  real  birth-place  to  his  dream), 
in  an  island  of  the  tropics ;  you  may  have  guessed  it  from  the 
color  of  my  hair,  and  from  my  complexion,  which  is  paler  than 
that  of  European  women.  You  must  have  perceived,  too,  the 
accent  which  still  lingers  on  my  lips.  In  truth,  I  rather  wish  to 
preserve  that  accent  as  my  only  memento  of  my  native  land ;  it 
recalls  to  my  mind  the  plaintive  and  harmonious  sounds  of  the 
sea-breeze,  that  are  heard  at  noon  beneath  the  lofty  palms.  You 
may  also  have  noticed  that  incorrigible  indolence  of  walk  and 
attitude,  so  different  from  the  vivacity  of  French  women,  which 
indicates  in  the  creole  a  wild  and  natural  frankness,  that  knows 
not  how  to  feign  or  to  dissemble. 

"  My  family  name  is  D  *  *  *,  and  my  own  is  Julie.  My 
mother  was  lost  in  a  boat  in  attempting  to  leave  our  native  isl- 
and during  an  insurrection  of  the  blacks.  I  was  washed  ashore 
and  saved  by  a  black  woman,  who  took  care  of  me  for  several 
years,  and  then  delivered  me  over  to  my  father.  He  brought 
me  to  France  when  I  was  six  years  old,  with  an  elder  sister, 
and  a  short  time  after  he  died  in  poverty  and  exile  in  the  house 
of  some  poor  relations,  who  had  hospitably  received  us  in  Brit- 
tany. The  second  mother  whom  I  had  found  in  exile,  provided 


RAPHAEL.  31 

for  my  education  until  her  death,  and  at  twelve  years  old  I  was 
adopted  by  the  government  as  being  the  daughter  of  a  man  who 
had  done  some  service  to  his  country.  I  was  brought  up  in  all 
the  luxurious  splendor,  and  amid  the  choice  friendships  of  those 
sumptuous  houses  in  which  the  state  receives  the  daughters  of 
those  who  die  for  their  country.  I  grew  in  years,  in  talent,  and 
also,  it  was  said,  in  beauty.  Mine  was  a  grave  and  saddened 
grace,  like  the  flower  of  some  tropical  plant,  blooming  awhile 
beneath  a  foreign  sky.  But  my  useless  beauty,  and  my  unavail- 
ing talents,  gladdened  no  eye  or  heart  beyond  the  narrow  pre- 
cincts in  which  I  was  confined.  My  companions  with  whom  I 
had  formed  those  close  intimacies  which  make  the  friends  of 
childhood  the  kindred  of  the  heart,  had  all  left,  one  by  one,  to 
join  their  mothers,  or  to  follow  their  husbands.  No  mother 
took  me  home ;  no  relation  came  to  visit  me ;  no  young  man 
heard  of  me,  or  sought  me  for  his  wife.  I  was  saddened  by 
these  successive  departures  of  all  my  friends,  and  felt  sorrowful 
to  think  I  was  forsaken  by  the  whole  world,  and  doomed  to  an 
eternal  bereavement  of  the  heart,  without  ever  having  loved.  I 
often  wept  in  secret,  and  regretted  that  the  poor  black  woman 
had  not  allowed  me  to  perish  in  the  waves  of  my  native  shore, 
more  merciful  to  me  than  the  ocean  of  the  world  on  which  1 
was  cast. 

"  Now  and  then,  an  old  man  of  great  celebrity  would  come  to 
visit,  in  the  name  of  the  emperor,  the  national  house  of  educa- 
tion, and  inquire  into  the  progress  of  the  pupils  in  the  arts  and 
sciences,  which  were  taught  by  the  first  masters  of  the  capital  ; 
I  was  always  pointed  out  to  him  as  the  brightest  example  of  the 
education  bestowed  on  the  orphans.  He  invariably  treated  me 
with  peculiar  predilection  from  my  childhood.  '  How  I  regret,' 
he  would  sometimes  say,  loud  enough  for  me  to  hear,  'that  I 
have  no  son !' 

"  One  day  I  was  called  down  to  the  parlor  of  the  superior.  I 
found  there  my  illustrious  and  venerable  friend,  who  seemed  as 
discomposed  as  I  was  myself.  '  My  child/  said  he,  at  length, 
'  years  roll  on  for  every  one  ;  slowly  for  you,  swiftly  for  me  ; 
you  are  now  seventeen  ;  in  a  few  months  you  will  have  attained 
the  age  at  which  you  must  leave  this  house  for  the  world;  but 
there  is  no  world  to  receive  you.  You  have  no  country,  no 
home,  no  fortune,  and  no  family  in  France ;  your  unprotected 
and  dependent  situation  has  made  me  feel  anxious  on  your  ac 
count  for  many  years.  The  life  of  a  young  girl,  who  earns  hei 


38  RAPHAEL. 


livelihood  by  her  labor,  is  full  of  snares  and  bitterness,  and  a 
home  offered  by  friends  is  both  precarious  and  humiliating  to 
the  spirit.  The  extreme  beauty  that  nature  has  bestowed  upon 
you  will,  by  its  brightness,  dispel  the  obscurity  of  your  fate,  and 
attract  vice,  as  the  brightness  of  gold  induces  theft.  Where  do 
you  mean  to  take  shelter  from  the  sorrows  and  dangers  of  life  T 
1  I  know  not,'  I  answered  ;  '  and  I  have  thought  sometimes  that 
death  alone  can  save  me  from  my  fate  !'  '  Oh  !'  he  replied,  with 
a  sad  and  irresolute  smile,  '  I  have  thought  of  another  mode  of 
escape,  but  1  scarcely  dare  propose  it.'  '  Speak,  without  fear, 
sir,'  I  answered  ;  '  you  have  during  so  many  years  spoken  to  me 
with  the  look  and  accent  of  a  father,  that  I  shall  fancy  I  am 
obeying  mine,  in  obeying  you.'  '  Ah  !  he  would  be  happy  in- 
deed,' he  replied,  '  who  had  a  daughter  such  as  you  !  Forgive 
me  if  I  have  sometimes  indulged  in  such  a  dream !  Listen  to 
me,'  he  added,  in  a  more  tender  and  serious  tone,  '  and  answer 
me  in  thorough  frankness  and  liberty  of  heart. 

"  '  My  life  is  drawing  to  a  close  ;  the  grave  will  soon  open  to 
receive  me,  and  I  have  no  relations  to  whom  to  bequeath  my 
only  wealth,  the  unaspiring  celebrity  of  my  name,  and  the  hum- 
ble fortune  that  I  have  acquired  by  my  labors.  Hitherto  I  have 
lived  alone,  completely  absorbed  by  the  studies  that  have  con- 
sumed and  dignified  my  life.  I  draw  near  to  the  close  of  my 
existence,  and  I  am  painfully  aware  that  I  have  not  commenced 
to  live,  since  I  have  not  thought  of  loving.  It  is  too  late  to  re- 
trace my  steps,  and  follow  the  path  of  happiness  instead  of  that 
of  glory,  which  I  have  unfortunately  chosen  ;  and  yet  I  would 
«ot  die  without  leaving  in  some  memory  that  prolongation  of 
existence  in  the  existence  of  another,  which  is  called  affection, 
the  only  immortality  in  which  I  believe !  I  can  not  hope  for 
more  than  gratitude,  and  I  feel  that  it  is  from  you  that  I  should 
wish  to  obtain  it.  But,'  added  he,  more  timidly,  '  for  that,  you 
must  consent  to  accept,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  for  the 
world  only,  the  name,  the  hand,  and  the  affection  of  an  old 
man,  who  would  be  a  father  under  the  name  of  husband,  and 
who,  as  such,  would  merely  seek  the  right  of  receiving  you  into 
his  house,  and  loving  you  as  his  child.' 

"  He  stopped,  and  refused  that  day  to  hear  the  answer  which 
was  already  hovering  on  my  lips.  He  was  the  only  man  among 
all  the  visitors  of  the  house  who  had  evinced  any  feeling  toward 
me,  beyond  that  vulgar  and  almost  insolent  admiration,  which 
shows  itself  in  looks  and  exclamations,  and  is  as  much  an  offense 


RAPHAEL.  39 

as  an  homage.  I  knew  nothing  of  love  ;  1  only  felt  an  absence 
of  all  family  ties  which  I  thought  the  tenderness  of  my  adoptive 
father  would  replace.  I  was  offered  a  safe  and  honorable 
refuge  against  the  dangers  of  the  life  in  which  I  was  to  enter 
in  a  few  months  ;  and  a  name  which  would  be  as  a  diadem  to  the 
woman  who  bore  it.  His  hair  had  grown  white,  it  was  true, 
but  under  the  touch  of  fame,  which  bestows  eternal  youth  upon 
its  favorites;  his  years  would  have  numbered  four  times  mine, 
but  his  regular  and  majestic  features  inspired  respect  for  time, 
and  no  disgust  to  old  age ;  and  his  countenance,  where  genius 
and  goodness  were  combined,  possessed  that  beauty  of  declin- 
ing age,  which  attracts  the  eye  and  affection  even  of  childhood. 
"  The  very  day  I  quitted  forever  the  Orphan  Establishment, 
I  entered  my  husband's  house,  not  as  his  wife,  but  as  his 
daughter.  The  world  gave  him  the  name  of  husband,  but  he 
never  suffered  me  to  call  him  any  thing  but  father,  and  he  was 
such  to  me  in  care  and  tenderness.  He  made  me  the  adored 
and  radiating  center  of  a  select  and  distinguished  circle,  com- 
posed for  the  greater  part  of  those  old  men,  eminent  in  letters, 
politics,  or  philosophy,  who  had  been  the  glory  of  the  preceding 
century,  and  had  escaped  the  fury  of  the  revolution,  and  the 
voluntary  servitude  of  the  empire.  He  selected  for  me  friends 
and  guides  among  those  women  of  the  same  period,  who  were 
most  I'emarkable  for  their  talents  or  virtues  ;  he  promoted  and 
encouraged  all  those  connections  most  likely  to  interest  my 
mind  or  heart,  and  to  diversify  the  monotonous  life  I  led  in  an 
old  man's  house ;  and  far  from  being  severe  or  jealous  in 
respect  of  my  acquaintances,  he  sought  by  the  most  courteous 
attention  to  attract  all  those  distinguished  men  whose  society 
might  have  charms  for  me.  He  would  have  liked  whoever  I 
had  chosen,  and  would  have  been  pleased  if  T  had  shown  pref- 
erence to  any  one  among  the  crowd.  I  was  the  worshiped 
idol  of  the  house,  and  the  general  idolatry  of  which  I  was  the 
object,  went  far,  perhaps,  to  guard  me  against  any  individual 
predilection.  I  was  too  happy  and  too  much  flattered,  to  in- 
quire into  the  state  of  my  own  heart,  and  besides,  there  was  so 
much  paternal  tenderness  in  my  husband's  manner  toward  me, 
although  he  only  showed  his  fondness  by  sometimes  holding  me 
to  his  heart,  and  kissing  my  forehead,  from  which  he  gently 
parted  my  hair,  that  I  should  have  feared  to  disturb  my  happi- 
ness by  seeking  to  render  it  complete.  He  would  sometime. \ 
however,  playfully  rally  me  on  my  indifference,  and  tell  rm 


40  RAPHAEL. 


that  all  that  tended  to  add  to  ray  happiness  would  increase  hia 
own. 

"Once,  and  once  only,  I  thought  I  loved,  and  was  beloved. 
A  nian  whose  genius  had  rendered  him  illustrious,  who  was 
powerful  from  his  high  favor  with  the  emperor,  and  who  was 
doubly  captivating  by  his  renown  and  appearance,  although  he 
had  passed  the  meridian  of  life,  sought  me  with  a  signal  devo- 
tion that  deceived  me.  I  was  not  elated  with  pride,  but  rather 
with  gratitude  and  surprise.  I  loved  him  for  a  time,  or  rather 
I  loved  a  self-ci~eated  delusion  under  his  name.  I  might  have 
yielded  to  the  charm  of  such  a  feeling,  had  I  not  discovered, 
that  what  I  supposed  to  be  a  passionate  attachment  of  the  heart, 
was  on  his  part  only  an  infatuation  of  the  senses.  When  I  per- 
ceived the  real  nature  of  his  love,  it  became  odious  to  me,  and 
I  blushed  to  think  how  I  had  been  deceived  ;  I  took  back  my 
heart,  and  wrapped  myself  once  more  in  the  cold  monotony  of 
my  happiness. 

"  The  morning  was  spent  in  deep  and  engaging  studies  with 
my  husband,  whose  willing  disciple  1  was.  During  the  day,  we 
took  long  and  solitary  walks  in  the  woods  of  St.  Cloud  or  of 
Meudon ;  and  in  the  evening,  a  few  grave,  and  for  the  mos' 
part,  elderly  friends,  would  meet  and  discourse  on  various  topics 
with  all  the  freedom  of  intimacy.  These  cold,  but  indulgen! 
hearts  inclined  toward  my  youth,  from  that  natural  bias  which 
makes  the  love  of  the  aged  descend  on  the  youthful,  as  the 
streams  of  snow-covered  summits  flow  downward  to  the  plain. 
But  these  hoary  heads  seemed  to  shed  their  snows  on  me,  and 
my  youth  pined  and  wasted  away  in  the  ungenial  atmosphere 
of  age.  There  lay  too  great  a  space  of  years,  between  their 
hearts  and  mine  !  Oh  !  what  would  I  not  have  given  to  have 
had  one  friend  of  my  own  age,  by  the  contact  of  whose  warm 
heart  I  might  have  dissolved  the  thoughts  that  froze  within  me, 
as  the  dew  of  morning  congeals  upon  the  plants  that  grow  too 
near  these  mountain  glaciers. 

"  My  husband  often  looked  sadly  at  me,  and  seemed  alarmed 
at  my  pale  face,  and  languid  voice.  He  would  have  desired, 
at  any  cost,  to  give  air  and  motion  to  my  heart.  He  continu- 
ally tried  to  induce  me  to  mingle  in  divei'sions  which  might 
dispel  my  melancholy,  and  would  use  gentle  force  to  oblige  me 
to  appear  at  balls  and  theaters,  in  the  hope  that  the  natural 
pride  which  my  youth  and  beauty  might  have  given  me,  would 
nave  made  me  share  in  the  pleasure  of  those  around  roe.  The 


RAPHAEL.  41 

next  morning,  as  soon  as  I  was  awake,  he  would  come  into  inj 
room,  and  make  me  relate  the  impression  I  had  produced,  tht 
admiration  I  had  attracted,  and  even  speak  of  the  hearts  that  I 
had  seemed  to  touch.  And  you,  would  he  say,  in  a  tone  of 
gentle  interrogation,  do  you  share  none  of  these  feelings  that 
you  inspire1?  Is  your  young  heart  at  twenty  as  old  as  mine  1 
Oh  !  that  I  could  see  you  single  out  from  among  all  these 
admirers,  one  superior  being,  who  might  one  day,  by  his  love, 
render  your  happiness  complete,  and  when  I  am  gone,  continue 
my  affection  for  you  under  a  younger  and  more  tender  form  ! 
Your  affection  suffices  me,  I  would  answer;  I  feel  no  pain;  1 
desire  nothing,  I  am  happy !  Yes,  he  would  rejoin,  you  are 
happy,  but  you  are  growing  old  at  twenty  !  Oh  !  remember 
that  it  is  your  task  to  close  my  eyes  !  Live  and  love !  oh,  do 
but  live,  that  I  may  not  survive  you. 

"  He  called  in  one  doctor  after  another ;  they  wearied  ma 
with  questions,  and  all  agreed  in  saying  that  I  was  threatened 
with  spasms  of  the  heart.  The  fainting  fits,  incident  to  the 
disease,  had  begun  to  show  themselves.  I  required,  it  was 
said,  to  break  through  the  usual  routine  of  my  life,  to  relinquish 
for  some  time  my  sedentary  habits,  and  seek  a  complete  change 
of  air  and  scene,  in  order  to  give  me  that  stimulus  and  energy 
that  my  tropical  nature  required,  and  which  it  had  lost  in  the 
cold  and  misty  atmosphere  of  Paris.  My  husband  did  not  hes- 
itate one  moment  between  the  hope  of  prolonging  my  life,  and 
the  happiness  of  keeping  me  near  him.  As  he  could  not,  by 
reason  of  his  age  and  occupations,  accompany  me,  he  confided 
me  to  the  care  of  friends  who  were  traveling  in  Switzerland 
and  Italy,  with  two  daughters  of  my  own  age.  I  traveled  with 
that  family  two  years ;  I  have  seen  mountains  and  seas  that 
reminded  me  of  those  of  my  native  land ;  I  have  breathed  the 
balmy  and  stimulating  air  of  the  waves  and  glaciers,  but  nothing 
has  restored  to  me  the  youth  that  has  withered  in  my  heart, 
although  it  sometimes  appears  to  bloom  on  my  face,  so  as  to 
deceive  even  me.  The  doctors  of  Geneva  have  sejpt  me  here, 
as  the  last  resource  of  their  art ;  they  have  advised  me  to  pro- 
long my  stay  as  long  as  one  ray  of  sun  lingers  in  the  autumnal 
sky ;  then  I  shall  rejoin  my  husband.  Alas  !  that  I  could  have 
shown  him  his  daughter,  once  more  young,  and  radiant  with 
health  and  hope  !  But  I  feel  that  I  shall  return  only  to  sadden 
his  latter  days,  and  perhaps  to  expire  in  his  arms ! — Well," 
she  rejoined,  in  a  resigned  and  almost  joyful  tone,  "  I  shall  not 


42  RAPHAEL. 

now  leave  earth  without  having  seen  my  long-expected  brother; 
the  brother  of  the  soul,  that  some  secret  instinct  taught  me  to 
expect,  and  whose  image,  foreshadowed  in  my  fancy,  had  made 
me  indifferent  to  all  real  beings!  Yes,"  she  said,  covering  her 
eyes  with  her  rosy  taper  fingers,  between  which  I  saw  one  or 
two  tears  trickle;  "Oh  !  yes,  the  dream  of  all  my  nights  was 
imbodied  in  you  this  morning,  when  I  awoke !  .  .  .  .  Oh  !  if  it 
were  not  too  late  to  live  on,  I  would  wish  to  live  for  centuries, 
to  prolong  the  consciousness  of  that  look,  which  seemed  to  weep 
over  me,  of  that  heart  that  pitied  me,  of  that  voice,"  she  added, 
unvailing  her  eyes,  which  were  raised  to  Heaven,  "  of  that 
voice  that  called  me  sister !  .  .  .  .  That  tender  name  will  never 
more  be  taken  from  me,"  she  added,  with  a  look  and  tone  of 
gentle  interrogation,  "  during  life,  or  after  death  V 

XX. — I  sank  at  her  feet  overpowered  with  felicity;  and 
pressed  my  lips  to  them  without  saying  a  word,  I  heard  the 
step  of  the  boatmen,  who  came  to  tell  us  that  the  lake  was 
calm,  and  that  there  was  but  just  sufficient  daylight  left,  to  cross 
over  to  the  Savoy  shore.  Wo  rose  to  follow  them,  with  un- 
steady steps,  as  if  intoxicated  with  joy.  Oh  !  who  can  describe 
what  I  experienced,  as  I  felt  the  weight  of  her  pliant  but  ex- 
hausted frame  hanging  delightfully  on  my  arm,  as  though  she 
wished  to  feel,  and  make  me  feel,  that  I  was  henceforward  her 
only  support  in  weakness,  her  only  trust  in  sorrow,  the  only 
link  by  which  she  held  to  earth.  Methinks  I  hear,  even  now, 
though  fifteen  years  have  passed  since  that  hour,  the  sound  of 
the  dry  leaves  as  they  rustled  beneath  our  tread  ;  I  see  our  two 
long  shadows  blended  into  one,  which  the  sun  cast  on  the  left 
side  on  the  grass  of  the  orchard,  and  which  seemed  like  a  living 
shroud  tracking  the  steps  of  youth  and  love,  to  envelop  them 
before  their  time.  I  feel  the  gentle  warmth  of  her  shoulder 
against  my  heart,  and  the  touch  of  one  of  the  tresses  of  her 
hair,  which  the  wind  of  the  lake  waved  against  my  face,  and 
which  my  lips  strove  to  retain  and  to  kiss !  O  Time !  what 
eternities  of  joy  thou  buriest  in  one  such  minute !  or  rather, 
how  powerless  art  thou  against  memory  !  how  impotent  to  give 
forgetfulness ! 

XXI. — The  evening  was  as  warm  and  preaceful  as  the  pre- 
ceding day  had  been  cold  and  stormy.  The  mountains  were 
bathed  in  a  soft  purple  light  which  made  them  appear  larg-ji 


RAPHAEL.  45 

and  more  distant  than  usual,  and  they  seemed  like  huge  floating 
shadows,  through  whose  transparency  one  could  perceive  the 
warm  sky  of  Itnly  which  lay  beyond.  The  sky  was  mottled 
with  small  crimson  clouds,  like  the  ensanguined  plumes  which 
fall  from  the  wing  of  the  wounded  swan,  struggling  in  the  grasp 
of  an  eagle. 

The  wind  had  subsided  as  evening  came  on  ;  the  silvery  rip 
pling  waves  threw  a  slight  fringe  of  spray  around  the  rocks, 
from  which  the  dripping  branches  of  the  fig-trees  depended. 
The  smoke  from  the  cottages,  which  lay  scattered  on  the  Mont 
du  Chat,  rose  here  and  there,  and  crept  upward  along  the 
mountain  sides,  while  the  cascades  fell  into  the  ravines  below, 
like  a  smoke  of  waters.  The  waves  of  the  lake  were  so  trans- 
parent, that  as  we  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  we  could  see 
the  reflection  of  the  oars  and  of  our  own  faces,  and  so  warm, 
that  as  we  drew  our  fingers  through  them,  we  felt  but  a  volup 
tuous  caress  of  the  waters.  We  were  separated  from  the  boat- 
men by  a  small  curtain,  as  in  the  gondolas  of  Venice.  She  was 
lying  on  one  of  the  benches  of  the  boat,  like  on  a  couch,  with 
her  elbow  resting  upon  a  cushion  ;  she  was  enveloped  in  shawls 
to  protect  her  from  the  damp  of  evening,  and  my  cloak  was 
placed  in  several  folds  upon  her  feet;  her  face,  at  times,  in 
shade,  was  at  others  illumined  by  the  last  rosy  tints  of  the  sun, 
which  seemed  suspended  over  the  dark  firs  of  the  Grande 
Chartreuse.  I  was  lying  on  a  heap  of  nets  at  the  bottom  of  the 
boat;  my  heart  was  full,  my  lips  were  mute,  my  eyes  were  fixed 
on  hers !  What  need  had  we  to  speak,  when  the  sun,  the  hour, 
the  mountains,  the  air  and  water,  the  voluptuous  balancing  of 
the  boat,  the  light  ripple  of  the  murmuring  waters  as  we  divided 
them,  our  looks,  our  silence,  and  our  hearts,  which  beat  in 
unison — all  spoke  so  eloquently  for  us.  We  rather  seemed  to 
fear  instinctively  that  the  least  sound  of  voice,  or  words,  would 
jar  discordantly  on  such  enchanting  silence.  We  seemed  to 
glide  from  the  azure  of  the  lake  to  the  azure  of  the  horizon, 
without  seeing  the  shores  we  left,  or  the  shores  on  which  we 
were  about  to  land. 

I  heard  one  longer  and  more  deep-drawn  sigh  fall  slowly 
from  her  lips,  as  though  her  bosom,  oppressed  by  some  secret 
weight,  had  at  one  breath  exhaled  the  aspirations  of  a  long  life. 
I  felt  alarmed.  "  Are  you  in  pain  1"  I  inquired,  sadly. — "  No," 
she  said  ;  "  it  was  not  pain,  it  was  thought." — "  What  were  you 
thinking  of  so  intensely  1"  I  rejoined. — "  I  was  thinking,"  she 


44  RAPHAEL. 

answered,  "  that  if  God  were  at  this  instant  to  strike  all  nature 
with  immobility — if  the  sun  were  to  remain  thus,  its  disk  half 
hidden  behind  those  dark  firs,  which  seem  the  fringed  lashes  of 
the  eye  of  heaven — if  light  and  shade  remained  thus  blended  in 
the  atmosphere,  this  lake  in  its  same  transparency,  this  air  as 
balmy,  these  two  shores  forever  at  the  same  distance  from  this 
boat,  the  same  ray  of  ethereal  light  on  your  brow,  the  same  look 
of  pity  reflected  from  your  eyes  in  mine,  this  same  fullness  of 
joy  in  my  heart,  I  should  comprehend  what  I  have  never  com- 
prehended since  I  first  began  to  think,  or  to  dream." — "What]" 
said  I,  anxiously. — "  Eternity  in  one  instant,  and  the  infinite  in 
one  sensation  !"  she  exclaimed,  half  leaning  over  the  edge  of 
the  boat,  as  if  to  look  at  the  water  and  to  spare  me  the  embar- 
rassment of  an  answer.  I  was  awkward  enough  to  reply  by 
some  common-place  phrase  of  vulgar  gallantry,  which  unfortu- 
nately rose  to  my  lips,  instead  of  the  chaste  and  ineffable  adora- 
tion which  inundated  my  heart.  It  was  something  to  the  effect, 
that  such  happiness  4would  not  suffice  me,  if  it  were  not  the 
promise  of  another  and  a  greater  felicity.  She  understood  me 
but  too  well,  and  blushed,  on  my  account  rather  than  her  own. 
She  turned  to  me  with  all  the  emotion  of  profaned  purity  de- 
picted on  her  face,  and  in  accents  as  tender,  but  more  solemn 
and  heartfelt,  than  any  that  had  yet  fallen  from  her  lips : — 
"You  have  given  me  pain,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice:  "come 
hither,  nearer  to  me,  and  listen  :  I  know  not  if  what  I  feel  for 
you,  and  what  you  appear  to  feel  for  me,  be  what  is  termed 
Jove,  in  the  obscure  and  confused  language  of  this  world,  in 
which  the  same  words  serve  to  express  feelings  that  bear  no 
resemblance  to  each  other,  save  in  the  sound  they  yield  upon 
the  lips  of  man.  I  do  not  wish  to  know  it ;  and  you  ! — oh  !  I 
beseech  you,  never  seek  to  know  it!  but  this  I  know,  that  it  is 
the  most  supreme  and  entire  happiness  that  the  soul  of  one 
created  being  can  draw  from  the  soul,  the  eyes,  and  the  voice 
of  another  being  like  to  herself,  of  a  being  who  till  now  was 
wanting  to  her  happiness,  and  of  whom  she  completes  the  ex- 
istence. Besides  this  boundless  happiness,  this  mutual  response 
of  thought  to  thought,  of  heart  to  heart,  of  soul  to  soul,  which 
blends  them  in  one  indivisible  existence,  and  makes  them  as 
inseparable  as  the  ray  of  yonder  setting  sun,  and  the  beam  of 
yonder  rising  moon,  when  they  meet  in  this  same  sky,  and 
ascend  in  mingled  light  in  the  same  ether — is  there  another  joy, 
gross  image  of  the  one  I  feel,  as  far  removed  from  the  eternal  and 


RAPHAEL.  45 

immaterial  union  of  our  souls,  as  dust  is  from  these  stars,  or  a  minute 
from  eternity  ]  I  know  not !  and  I  will  not,  can  not  know  !"  she 
added,  in  a  tone  of  disdainful  sadness.  "  But,"  she  resumed, 
with  a  confiding  look  and  attitude,  which  seemed  to  make  her 
wholly  mine,  "  what  do  words  signify  1  I  love  you  !  all  nature 
would  say  it  for  me,  if  I  did  not ;  or  rather,  let  me  proclaim  it 
first,  for  both  :  We  love  each  other!" 

"  Oh  !  say,  say  it  once  more,  say  it  a  thousand  times,"  I  ex- 
claimed, rising  like  a  madman,  and  walking  backward  and  for- 
ward in  the  boat,  which  shook  beneath  my  feet :  "  Let  us  say  it 
together,  say  it  to  God  and  man,  say  it  to  Heaven  and  earth, 
say  it  to  the  mute,  unheeding  elements !  Say  it  eternally,  and 
let  all  nature  repeat  it  eternally  with  us !  ..."  I  fell  on  my 
knees  before  her,  with  my  hands  clasped,  and  my  disordered 
hair  falling  over  my  face.  "  Be  calm,"  she  said,  placing  her 
fingers  on  my  lips,  "  and  let.  me  speak  without  interruption  to 
the  end."  I  sat  down,  and  remained  silent. 

"  I  have  said,"  she  resumed,  "  or  rather  I  have  not  said — I 
have  called  out  to  you  from  the  depths  of  my  soul,  that  I  love 
you!  "I  love  you  with  all  the  accumulated  power  of  the  expect- 
ations, dreams,  and  impatient  longings  of  a  sterile  life  of  eigbt- 
and-twenty  years,  passed  in  watching  and  not  seeing,  in  seeking 
and  not  finding,  what  some  presentiment  taught  me  to  expect, 
and  you  have  revealed  to  me.  But  alas  !  1  have  known  and 
loved  you  too  late,  if  you  understand  love  as  most  men  do,  and 
as  you  seemed  to  comprehend  it  when  you  spoke  just  now, 
those  light  and  profane  words.  Listen  to  me  once  more,"  she 
added,  "  and  understand  me ;  I  am  yours,  wholly  yours.  I  be- 
long to  you  as  I  do  to  myself,  and  I  may  say  so  without  wrong 
ing  the  adoptive  father,  who  never  considered  me  but  as  a 
daughter.  I  am  wholly  yours,  and  of  myself,  I  only  keep  back 
what  you  wish  me  to  retain.  Do  not  be  surprised  at  this 
language,  which  is  not  that  of  the  women  of  Europe;  they  love 
and  ai'e  beloved  tamely,  and  would  fear  to  weaken  the  senti- 
ments they  inspire  by  avowing  a  secret  that  they  wish  to  have 
wrested  from  them.  I  differ  from  them  by  my  country,  by  my 
feelings,  and  by  my  education.  I  have  lived  with  a  philosopher 
in  the  society  of  free-thinkers,  unshackled  by  the  belief  and  ob- 
servances of  the  religion  they  have  undermined,  and  have  none 
of  the  superstitions,  weaknesses,  and  scruples,  which  make 
ordinary  women  bow  before  another  judge  than  their  con- 
science. The  God  of  their  childhood  is  not  my  God.  I  be'ieve 


46  RAPHAEL,. 

in  the  God  who  has  written  his  symbol  in  nature,  his  law  in  oui 
hearts,  his  morality  in  our  reason.  Reason,  feeling,  and  con- 
science are  the  only  revelation  in  which  I  believe.  Neither  of 
these  oracles  o?  my  life  forbid  me  to  be  yours,  and  the  impulse 
of  my  whole  soul  would  cast  me  into  your  arms,  if  you  could 
only  be  happy  at  that  price.  But  shall  you  or  I  place  our  hap- 
piness in  a  fugitive  delirium  of  the  senses,  which  can  not  give 
half  the  enjoyment  that  its  voluntary  renunciation  would  afford 
our  hearts?  Shall  we  not  more  fully  believe  in  the  immaterial- 
ity and  eternity  of  our  love,  if  it  remains,  like  a  pure  thought, 
in  those  regions  which  are  inaccessible  to  change  and  death, 
than  if  it  were  degraded  and  profaned  by  unworthy  delights  1 
If  ever,"  she  added,  after  a  short  silence,  and  blushing  deeply, 
"  if  ever,  in  a  moment  of  frenzy  and  incredulity,  you  exacted 
from  me  such  a  proof  of  abnegation,  the  sacrifice  would  not 
only  be  one  of  dignity,  but  of  existence;  in  robbing  my  love  of 
its  innocency,  you  would  rob  me  of  life ;  when  you  thought  to 
embrace  happiness,  you  would  clasp  only  death  in  your  arms ; 
I  am  but  a  shade,  and  in  one  sigh  I  may  exhale  my  soul !  .  .  ." 
We  remained  silent  for  some  time.  At  last,  with  a  deep- 
drawn  sigh,  I  said,  "  I  understand  you,  and  in  my  heart  I  had 
sworn  the  eternal  innocency  of  my  love,  before  you  had  done 
speaking,  or  required  it  of  me." 

XXTT. — My  resigned  tone  seemed  to  delight  her,  and  to 
redouble  the  confiding  charm  of  her  manner.  Night  had 
spread  over  all,  the  stars  glassed  themselves'  in  the  lake,  and 
the  silence  of  Nature  lulled  the  earth  to  rest.  The  winds,  the 
trees  and  waves  were  hushed,  to  let  us  listen  to  all  the  fugitive 
impressions  of  feeling  and  of  thought  that  whisper  in  the  hearts 
of  the  happy.  The  boatmen  sang  snatches  of  their  drawling 
and  monotonous  chants,  which  seem  like  the  noted  modulations 
of  the  waves  on  the  shore.  I  was  reminded  of  her  voice,  which 
seemed  ever  to  sound  in  my  ear,  and  I  exclaimed,  "Oh,  that 
you  would  mark  this  enchanting  night  for  me,  by  some  sweet 
tones  addressed  to  these  winds  and  waves,  so  that  they  may  be 
forever  full  of  you."  I  made  a  sign  to  the  boatmen  to  be  silent, 
and  to  stifle  the  sound  of  their  oars,  from  which  the  drops  came 
trickling  back  into  the  lake,  like  a  musical  accompaniment  of 
silvery  notes.  She  sang  a  Scotch  ballad,  half  naval  and  half 
pastoral,  in  which  a  young  girl,  whose  sailor  lover  has  left  her 
to  seek  wealth  beyond  the  seas,  relates  how  her  parents,  wearied 


RAPHAEL.  47 

of  waiting  his  return,  had  induced  her  to  marry  an  old  man 
with  whom  she  might  have  been  happy,  but  for  the  remem 
brance  of  her  early  love.  The  ballad  begins  thus  : — 

"  When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld  and  the  ky  at  hame, 
And  a'  the  weary  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 
The  waes  of  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  e'e, 
While  my  gude-man  lies  sound  by  me." 

After  each  verse  there  is  a  long  reverie,  sung  in  vague  notes, 
without  words,  which  lulls  the  heart  with  unspeakable  melan- 
choly, and  brings  tears  into  the  eyes  and  voice.  Each  succeed- 
ing verse  takes  up  the  story  in  the  dull  and  distant  tone  of 
memory,  weeping,  regretting,  yet  resigned.  If  the  Greek 
strophes  of  Sappho  are  the  very  fire  of  love,  these  Scotch  notes 
are  the  very  life's  blood  and  tears  of  a  heart  stricken  to  death 
by  Fate.  I  know  not  who  wrote  the  music,  but  whoever  he 
may  be,  thanks  be  to  him  for  having  found  in  a  few  notes,  and 
in  the  mournful  melody  of  a  voice,  the  expression  of  infinite 
human  sadness.  I  have  never  since  then  heard  the  first  meas- 
ure of  that  air,  without  flying  from  it  as  one  pursued  by  a 
spirit ;  and  when  I  wish  to  soften  my  heart  by  a  tear,  I  sing 
within  myself  the  plaintive  burden  of  that  song,  and  feel  ready 
to  weep  ! — I,  who  never  weep  ! 

XXIII. — We  reached  the  little  mole  that  stretches  out  intt 
the  lake  where  the  boats  are  moored ;  it  is  the  harbor  of  Aix 
and  is  situated  at  about  half  a  league  from  the  town.  It  was. 
midnight ;  and  there  were  no  longer  any  carriages  or  donkeys* 
on  the  pier  to  convey  strangers  to  the  town.  The  distance 
was  too  great  for  a  delicate,  suffering  woman  to  walk ;  and 
after  knocking  fruitlessly  at  the  doors  of  one  or  two  cottages  iu 
the  vicinity  of  the  lake,  the  boatmen  proposed  carrying  the  lady 
to  Aix.  They  cheerfully  slipped  their  oars  from  the  rings 
which  fastened  them  to  the  boat,  and  tied  them  together  with 
the  ropes  of  their  nets;  then  they  placed  one  of  the  cushions  of 
the  boat  on  these,  ropes,-  and  thus  formed  a  soft  and  flexible  kind 
of  litter  for  the  stranger.  Four  of  them  then  took  up  the  oars, 
and  each  placing  one  end  on  his  shoulder,  they  set  off  with  the 
palanquin,  to  which  they  imparted  no  other  motion  than  that 
of  their  steps.  I  would  have  wished  to  have  my  share  in  the 
pleasure  of  bearing  their  precious  burden,  but  was  repulsed  by 
them  with  jealous  eagerness.  I  walked  beside  the  litter  with 


48  RAPHAEL. 

my  right  hand  in  hers,  so  that  she  might  cling  to  me  when  the 
movement  of  her  conveyance  was  too  rough.  I  thus  prevented 
her  slipping  off  the  narrow  cushion  on  which  she  was  stretched. 
We  walked  in  this  manner  slowly  and  silently  in  the  moonlight 
down  the  long  avenue  of  poplars  !  Oh  !  how  short  that  avenue 
seemed  to  me,  and  how  I  wished  that  it  could  have  led  us  on  thus 
to  the  last  step  of  both  our  lives  !  She  did  not  speak,  and  I  said 
nothing,  hut  1  felt  the  whole  weight  of  her  body  trustingly  sus- 
pended to  my  arm ;  I  felt  both  her  cold  hands  clasp  mine,  and 
from  time  to  time  an  involuntary  pressure  or  a  warmer  breath 
upon  them,  made  me  feel  that  she  had  approached  her  lips  to 
my  hand  to  warm  it.  Never  was  silence  so  eloquent  in  its 
mute  revealings  !  We  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  a  century  in 
one  hour!  By  the  time  we  arrived  at  the  old  doctors  house 
and  that  we  had  deposited  the  invalid  at  her  chamber  door,  the 
whole  world  that  lay  between  us  had  disappeared.  My  hand 
was  wet  with  her  tears ;  I  dried  them  with  my  lips,  and  threw 
myself  without  undressing  on  my  bed. 

XXIV. — In  vain  I  tossed  and  turned  on  my  pillow ;  I  could 
not  sleep.  The  thousand  impressions  of  the  preceding  days 
were  traced  so  vividly  on  my  mind,  that  I  could  not  believe 
they  were  past,  and  I  seemed  to  hear  and  see  over  again,  all  I 
dad  seen  or  heard  the  previous  day.  The  fever  of  my  soul  had 
extended  to  my  body.  I  rose  and  laid  down  again  without 
finding  repose.  At  last  I  gave  it  up.  I  tried  by  bodily  motion 
co  calm  the  agitation  of  my  mind  ;  I  opened  the  window,  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  books  which  I  did  not  understand  as  I  read 
them ;  paced  up  and  down,  and  changed  the  position  of  my 
table  and  my  chair  a  dozen  times,  without  finding  a  place  where 
I  could  bear  to  spend  the  night.  All  this  noise  was  heard  in 
the  adjoining  room ;  and  my  steps  disturbed  the  poor  invalid, 
who,  doubtless,  was  as  wakeful  as  I  was.  I  heard  a  light  step 
on  the  creaking  floor  approach  the  bolted  oak  door  which  sepa- 
rated her  sitting-room  from  my  bed-room ;  I  listened  with  my 
ear  close  to  the  dooi%  and  heard  a  suppressed  breathing,  and 
the  rustle  of  a  silk  gown  against  the  wall.  The  light  of  a  lamp 
shone  through  the  chinks  of  the  door,  and  streamed  from  be- 
neath it  on  my  floor.  It  was  she !  she  was  there  listening  too, 
with  her  ear  perhaps  close  to  my  brow :  she  might  have  heard 
my  heart  beat.  "  Are  you  ill  f"  whispered  a  voice,  which  I 
should  have  recognized  by  a  single  sigh. — "  No,"  I  answered, 


RAPHAEL.  4> 

"  but  I  am  too  happy  !  Excess  of  joy  is  as  exciting  as  excess 
of  anguish.  The  fever  I  feel  is  one  of  life — I  do  net  wish  to 
dispel  it,  or  to  fly  from  it,  but  I  am  sitting  up  to  enjoy  it." 
"  Child  that  you  are !"  she  said,  "  go  and  sleep  while  I  watch  ; 
it  is  now  my  turn  to  watch  over  you."  "  But  you,"  whispered 
I,  "why  are  you  not  sleeping]"  "  I  never  wish  to  sleep  more," 
she  replied ;  "  I  would  not  lose  one  minute  of  the  consciousness 
of  my  overwnelming  bliss.  I  have  but  little  time  in  which  to 
enjoy  my  happiness,  and  do  not  like  to  give  any  portion  of  it 
to  forgetfulness  in  sleep.  I  came  to  sit  here  in  the  hopes  of 
hearing  you,  or  at  any  rate  to  feel  nearer  to  you."  "  Oh  !  why 
still  so  far  ?"  I  murmured  ;  "  why  so  far  1  Why  is  this  wall 
between  us1?"  "  Is  there  only  this  docvr  between  us,  then,"  she 
said  ;  "  and  not  our  will  and  our  vow  1  There  !  if  you  are  only 
restrained  by  this  material  obstacle,  it  is  removed  !"  and  I  heard 
ner  withdraw  the  bolt  on  her  side.  "  Yes,"  she  continued,  "  if 
there  be  not  in  you  some  feeling  stronger  than  love  itself  to 
subdue  and  master  your  passion,  you  can  pass.  Yes,"  she 
added,  with  an  accent  at  once  more  solemn  and  more  impas- 
sioned, "  I  will  owe  nothing  but  to  yourself — you  may  pass ; 
you  will  meet  with  love  equal  to  your  own,  but  such  love 

would  be  my  death " 

I  was  overcome  by  the  violence  of  my  feelings,  the  impetuous 
impulse  of  my  heart  that  impelled  me  toward  that  voice,  and 
the  moral  violence  that  repulsed  me,  and  I  fell  as  one  mortally 
wounded  on  the  threshold  of  that  closed  door.  As  to  her,  I 
heard  her  sit  down  on  a  cushion  which  she  had  taken  from  a 
sofa,  and  thrown  on  the  floor.  During  the  greater  part  of  the 
night  we  continued  to  converse  in  a  low  tone,  through  the  in 
tervals  between  the  floor  and  the  rough  wood-work  of  the  door. 
Who  can  describe  the  outpourings  of  our  hearts,  the  words  un- 
used in  the  ordinary  language  of  men,  that  seemed  to  be  wafted 
like  night  dreams  between  heaven  and  earth,  and  were  inter- 
rupted by  silence,  in  which  our  hearts  and  not  our  lips  com- 
muned, and  revealed  their  unutterable  thoughts  1  At  length 
the  intervals  of  silence  became  longer,  the  voices  grew  fainter, 
and,  overcome  with  fatigue,  I  fell  asleep,  with  my  hands  clasped 
on  my  knees,  and  my  cheek  leaning  against  the  wall. 

XXV. — The  sun  was  already  high  in  the  heavens  when  I 
woke,  and  my  room  was  flooded  with  light.  The  redbreasts 
were  chirping  and  pecking  at  the  vines  and  currant  bushes 


50  RAPHAEL. 

beneath  my  windows;  all  nature  seemed  to  be  illumined  and 
adorned,  and  to  have  awakened  before  me,  to  usher  in  and 
welcome  this  first  day  of  my  new  life.  All  the  sounds  and 
noises  in  the  house  seemed  joyful  as  I  was.  I  heard  the  light 
steps  of  the  maid  who  went  and  came  in  the  passage,  to  carry 
breakfast  to  her  mistress,  the  childish  voices  of  the  little  girls 
of  the  mountains,  who  brought  flowers  from  the  edge  of  the 
glaciers,  and  the  tinkling  bells  and  stamping  hoofs  of  the  mules 
which  were  waiting  in  the  yard  to  carry  her  to  the  lake  or  to 
the  mountain.  I  changed  my  soiled  and  dusty  clothes,  I  bathed 
my  red  and  swollen  eyes,  smoothed  my  disordered  hair,  put  on 
my  leather  gaiters,  like  a  chamois  hunter  of  the  Alps,  and  taking 
my  gun  in  hand,  I  went  down  to  join  the  old  doctor  and  his 
family  at  the  breakfast  table. 

At  breakfast  they  talked  of  the  storm  on  the  lake,  of  the 
danger  in  which  the  stranger  had  been,  her  fainting  at  Haute- 
Combe,  her  absence  during  two  days,  and  my  good  fortune  in 
having  met  with  her  and  brought  her  home.  1  begged  the 
doctor  to  request  for  me  the  favor  of  inquiring  in  person  aftei 
her  health,  and  accompanying  her  in  her  excursions.  He  camt 
down  again  with  her ;  she  looked  lovelier  and  more  interesting 
than  ever,  and  happiness  seemed  to  have  given  her  fresh  youth 
She  enchanted  every  one,  but  she  looked  only  at  me :  I  alone 
understood  her  looks  and  words  with  their  double  meaning.  The 
guides  hoisted  her  joyfully  on  the  seat,  with  the  swinging  foot- 
board, which  serves  as  a  saddle  for  the  women  of  Savoy ;  and 
I  walked  beside  the  mule  with  the  tinkling  bells,  which  was 
that  day  to  carry  her  to  the  highest  chalets  of  the  mountain. 

We  passed  the  whole  day  there,  but  we  scarcely  spoke, 
so  well  did  we  akeady  understand  each  other  without  words. 
Sometimes  we  stood  contemplating  the  cheerful  valley  of 
Chambery,  which  appeared  to  widen  as  we  mounted  higher ; 
or  we  loitered  on  the  edge  of  cascades,  whose  sun-tinted  vapors 
enveloped  us  in  watery  rainbows,  that  seemed  to  be  the  mys- 
terious halo  of  our  love ;  or  we  would  gather  the  latest  flowers 
of  earth,  on  the  sloping  meadows  before  the  chalets,  and  ex- 
change them  between  us,  as  the  letters  of  the  fragrant  alphabet 
of  nature,  intelligible  to  us  alone ;  or  we  gathered  chestnuts, 
which  we  brought  home  to  roast  at  night  by  her  fire ;  or  we 
sat  under  shelter  of  the  highest  chalets,  which  were  already 
abandoned  by  their  owners,  and  thought  how  happy  two  beings 
like  ourselves  might  be,  confined  by  fate  to  one  of  these  deserted 


RAPHAEL.  51 

huts,  made  from  rough  boards  and  trunks  of  trees ;  so  near  the 
stars,  so  near  the  murmuring  winds,  the  snows  and  glaciers, 
but  divided  from  man  by  solitude,  and  sufficing  to  each  other 
during  a  life  filled  with  one  thought,  and  but  one  feeling  ! 

XXVI. — In  the  evening,  we  came  down  slowly  from  the 
mountain,  with  saddened  looks,  as  though  we  had  been  leaving 
our  domains  and  happiness  behind  us.  She  retired  to  her 
apartment,  and  I  remained  below  to  sup  with  our  host  and 
his  guests.  After  supper,  I  knocked,  as  had  been  agreed  upon, 
at  her  door:  she  received  me  as  she  might  a  friend  of  childhood 
after  a  long  absence.  Henceforward  I  spent  all  my  days  and 
all  my  evenings  in  the  same  manner;  I  generally  found  her 
reclining  on  a  sofa  with  a  white  cover,  which  was  placed  in  a 
corner,  between  the  fire-place  and  the  window ;  upon  a  small 
table,  on  which  stood  a  brass  lamp,  there  were  some  books,  the 
letters  she  had  received  or  commence'd  during  the  day,  a  little, 
common  tea-pot — which  she  gave  me  when  she  went  away,  and 
which  has  always  stood  upon  my  chimney  since — and  two  cups 
of  blue  and  pink  china,  in  which  we  used  to  take  tea  at  mid- 
night. The  old  doctor  would  sometimes  go  up  with  me,  to 
chat  with  his  fair  patient ;  but  after  half  an  hour's  conversation, 
the  good  old  inan  would  find  out  that  my  presence  went  further 
than  his  advice  or  his  baths,  to  re-establish  the  health  that  was 
so  precious  to  us  all,  and  would  leave  us  to  our  books  and  con- 
versation. At  midnight,  I  kissed  the  hand  she  extended  to  me 
across  the  table,  and  went  to  my  own  room  ;  but  I  never  retired 
to  rest  until  all  was  silent  in  hers. 

XXVII. — We  led  this  delightful,  two-fold  life  during  six  long 
or  short  weeks ;  long,  when  I  call  to  mind  the  numberless  pal- 
pitations of  joy  in  our  hearts,  but  short,  when  I  remember  the 
imperceptible  rapidity  of  the  hours  that  filled  them.  By  a  mir- 
acle of  Providence,  which  does  not  occur  once  in  ten  years,  the 
season  seemed  to  connive  at  our  happiness,  and  to  conspire 
with  us  to  prolong  it.  The  whole  month  of  October,  and  half 
November,  seemed  like  a  new  but  leafless  spring:  the  air  waa 
still  soft,  the  waters  blue,  the  clouds  were  rosy,  and  the  sun 
shone  brightly.  The  days  were  shorter,  it  is  true,  but  the  long 
evenings  spent  beside  her  fire,  drew  us  closer  together:  they 
made  us  more  exclusively  present  to  each  othei,  and  prevented 
our  looks  and  hearts  from  evaporating  amid  the  splendor  of 


52  RAPHAEL. 

external  nature.  We  love<l  them  better  than  the  long  summer 
days.  Our  light  was  within  us,  and  it  shone  more  brightly 
when  we  confined  ourselves  to  the  house  during  the  long  dark- 
ness of  November  evenings,  with  the  moaning  of  the  autumnal 
winds  around  us,  and  the  first  rattling  of  the  sleet  and  hail 
against  the  windows.  The  wintry  rain  seemed  to  throw  us 
back  upon  ourselves,  and  to  cry  aloud :  Hasten  to  say  all  that 
is  yet  untold  in  your  hearts,  and  all  that  must  be  spoken  before 
man  and  woman  die,  for  I  am  the  voice  of  the  evil  days  that 
are  near  at  hand  to  part  you  ! 

XXVIII. — We  visited  together,  in  succession,  every  creek 
and  cove,  or  sandy  beach  of  the  lake,  every  mountain  pass,  or 
ridge  ;  every  grotto,  or  remote  valley ;  every  cascade  hidden 
among  the  rocks  of  Savoy.  We  saw  more  sublime  or  smiling 
landscapes,  more  mysterious  solitudes,  more  enchanted  deserts, 
more  cottages  hanging  on*  the  mountain-brow,  half-way  between 
the  clouds  and  the  abyss,  more  foaming  waters  in  the  sloping 
meadows,  more  forests  of  dark  pines  disclosing  their  gloomy 
colonnades  and  echoing  our  steps  beneath  their  domes,  than 
might  have  hidden  a  whole  world  of  lovers.  To  each  of  these 
we  gave  a  sigh,  a  rapture,  or  a  blessing;  we  implored  them  to 
preserve  the  memory  of  the  hours  we  had  passed  together,  of 
the  thoughts  they  had  inspired,  the  air  they  had  given  us,  the 
drop  of  water  we  had  drunk  in  the  hollow  of  our  hands,  the 
leaf  or  flower  we  had  gathered,  the  print  of  our  footsteps  on  the 
dewy  grass,  and  to  give  them  back  to  us  one  day  with  the  par- 
ticle of  existence  that  we  had  left  there  as  we  passed  ;  so  that 
naught  might  be  lost  of  the  bliss  that  overflowed  within  us,  and 
that  we  might  receive  back  each  minute  of  ecstasy,  or  emana- 
tion of  ourselves,  in  that  faithful  treasure-house  of  Eternity, 
where  nothing  is  lost,  not  even  the  breath  we  have  just  exhaled, 
or  the  minute  we  think  we  have  lost.  Never,  perhaps,  since 
the  creation  of  these  lakes,  these  torrents,  and  these  rocks,  did 
such  tender  and  fervent  hymns  ascend  from  these  mountains  to 
Heaven !  There  was  in  our  souls  life  and  love  enough  to  ani- 
mate all  nature,  earth,  air,  and  water,  rocks  and  trees,  cedar 
and  hyssop,  and  to  make  them  give  forth  sighs,  aspirations, 
voice,  perfume,  and  flame  enough,  to  fill  the  whole  sanctuary  of 
nature,  even  if  more  vast  and  mute  than  the  desert  in  which  we 
wandered.  Had  a  globe  been  created  for  ourselves  alone,  we 
alone  wculd  have  sufficed  to  people  and  to  quicken  it,  to  give  it 


RAPHAEL.  53 

voice  and  language,  praise  and  love,  for  all  eternity  !  And  who 
Bhall  say  that  the  human  soul  is  not  infinite  1  Who,  beside  the 
woman  he  adores,  before  the  face  of  nature,  and  beneath  the 
eye  of  God,  e'er  felt  the  limits  of  existence,  or  of  his  power  of 
life  and  love  ?  O  Love !  the  base  may  fear  thee,  and  the 
wicked  proscribe  thee  !  Thou  art  the  high  priest  of  this  world, 
the  revealer  of  Immortality,  the  fire  of  the  Altar !  and  without 
thy  ray,  man  would  not  even  dimly  comprehend  Eternity  ! 

XXIX. — These  six  weeks  were  to  me  as  a  baptism  of  fire, 
which  transfigui-ed  my  soul,  and  cleansed  it  of  all  the  impurities 
with  which  it  had  been  stained.  Love  was  the  torch  which, 
while  it  fired  my  heart,  enlightened  all  nature,  heaven,  and 
earth,  and  showed  me  to  myself.  I  understood  the  nothingness 
of  this  world,  when  I  felt  how  it  vanished  before  a  single  spark 
of  true  life.  I  loathed  myself  as  I  looked  back  into  the  past, 
and  compared  it  with  the  purity  and  perfection  of  the  one  1 
loved.  I  entered  into  the  heaven  of  my  soul,  as  my  heart  and 
eyes  fathomed  the  ocean  of  beauty,  tenderness,  and  purity 
which  expanded  hourly  in  the  eyes,  in  the  voice,  and  in  the 
discourse,  of  the  heavenly  creature  who  had  manifested  herself 
to  me.  How  often  did  I  kneel  before  her,  my  head  bowed  to 
the  earth  in  the  attitude  and  with  the  feeling  of  adoration  ! 
How  often  did  I  beseech  her,  as  I  would  a  being  of  anothei 
order,  to  cleanse  me  in  her  tears,  absorb  me  in  her  flame,  or  to 
inhale  me  in  her  breath  ;  so  that  nothing  of  myself  should  be 
left  in  me,  save  the  purifying  water  with  which  she  had  cleansed 
me,  the  flame  that  had  consumed  me,  or  the  new  breath  that 
she  had  infused  into  my  new  being ;  so  that  I  might  become 
her,  or  she  might  become  me,  and  that  God  himself,  in  calling 
us  to  him,  should  not  distinguish  or  divide  what  the  miracle  of 
love  had  transformed  and  mingled !  .  .  .  .  Oh !  if  you  have  a 
brother  or  a  son,  who  has  never  understood  virtue,  pray  that 
he  may  love  as  I  did  !  As  long  as  he  loves  thus,  he  will  be 
capable  of  every  sacrifice  or  heroic  devotion,  to  equal  the  ideal 
of  his  love;  and  when  he  no  longer  loves,  he  will  still  retain  in 
his  soul  a  remembrance  of  celestial  delights,  which  will  make 
him  turn  with  disgust  from  the  waters  of  vice,  and  his  eye  will 
be  often  secretly  uplifted  toward  the  pure  spring  at  which  he 
once  knelt  to  drink.  I  can  not  tell  the  feeling  of  salutary  shame 
which  oppressed  me  in  the  presence  of  the  one  I  loved  ;  but  her 
reproaches  were  so  tender,  her  looks  so  gentle,  though  peno- 


64  RAPHAEL. 


tratitig,  her  pardon  so  divine,  that  in  humbling  myself  before 
her  I  did  not  feel  myself  abased,  but  rather  raised  and  dignified. 
I  almost  mistook  for  my  own  and  inward  light,  what  was  only 
the  reverberation  in  me  of  her  splendor  and  purity.  Involunta- 
rily I  compared  her  to  all  the  other  women  I  had  approached, 
except  Antonina,  who  appeared  to  me  like  Julie  in  her  artless 
infancy ;  and  save  my  mother,  whom  she  resembled  in  her  vir- 
tue and  maturity,  no  woman  in  my  eyes  could  bear  the  slightest 
comparison.  A  single  look  of  hers  seemed  to  throw  all  my  past 
life  into  shade.  Her  discourse  revealed  to  me  depths  of  feeling 
and  refinements  of  passion,  which  transported  me  into  unknown 
regions,  where  I  seemed  to  breathe  for  the  first  time  the  native 
air  of  my  own  thoughts.  All  the  levity,  fickleness,  and  vanity, 
the  aridity,  irony,  and  bitterness,  of  the  evil  days  of  my  youth, 
disappeared,  and  I  scarcely  recognized  myself.  When  I  left 
her  presence  I  felt  myself  good,  and  thought  myself  pure. 
Once  more,  I  felt  enthusiasm,  prayer,  inward  piety,  and  the 
warm  tears  which  flow  not  from  the  eyes,  but  well  out  like  a 
secret  spring  from  beneath  our  apparent  aridity,  and  cleanse 
the  heart  without  enervating  it.  I  vowed  never  to  descend 
from  the  celestial  but  ungiddy  heights  to  which  I  had  been 
raised  by  her  tender  reproaches,  her  voice,  her  single  presence  ! 
It  was  as  a  second  innocence  of  my  soul,  imparted  by  the  rays 
of  the  eternal  innocence  of  her  love !  I  could  not  say  whether 
there  was  most  piety,  or  fascination,  in  the  ^mpression  I  re- 
ceived, so  much  did  passion  and  adoration  mingle  in  equal 
portions,  and  in  my  thoughts  change,  a  thousand  times  in  one 
minute,  love  into  worship,  or  worship  into  love  !  Oh  !  is  not 
that  the  height,  the  very  pinnacle  of  love  :  enthusiasm  in  the 
possession  of  perfect  beauty,  and  rapture  in  supreme  adora- 
tion ]...•.  All  she  had  said  seemed  to  me  eternal ;  all  she  had 
looked  on  appeared  to  me  sacred.  I  envied  the  earth  on  which 
she  had  trodden  ;  the  sunshine  which  had  enveloped  her  during 
our  walks  appeared  to  me  happy  to  have  touched  her.  I 
would  have  wished  to  abstract,  and  separate  forever  from  the 
liquid  plains  of  air,  the  air  that  she  had  sanctified  in  breathing 
it;  I  would  have  inclosed  the  empty  place  that  she  had  just 
ceased  to  fill  in  space,  so  that  no  inferior  creature  should  oc- 
cupy it  so  long  as  the  world  should  last !  In  a  word,  I  saw 
and  felt,  I  worshiped  God  himself,  through  the  medium  of 
my  love!  If  life  were  to  last  in  such  a  condition  of  the  soul, 
nature  would  stal  d  stiil,  the  blood  would  ceaso  to  circulate,  the 


K  A  P  II  A  E  L  .  55 

heart  forget  to  beat ;  or  rather,  there  would  be  neither  motion, 
precipitation,  nor  lassitude,  neither  life  nor  death  in  our  senses  ; 
there  would  be  only  one  endless  and  living  absorption  of  our 
being  in  another's,  such  as  must  be  the  state  of  the  soul  at  once 
annihilated  and  living  in  God  ! 

XXX. — Oh !  joy !  the  vile  desires  of  sensual  passion  were 
annulled  (as4  she  had  wished)  in  the  full  possession  of  each 
other's  soul;  and  happiness,  as  happiness  ever  does,  made  me 
feel  better  and  more  pious  than  I  had  ever  been.  God  and 
my  love  were  so  mingled  in  my  heart,  that  my  adoration  of  her 
became  a  perpetual  adoration  of  the  Supreme  Being  who  had 
created  her.  During  the  day,  when  we  loitered  on  the  sloping 
bills,  or  on  the  borders  of  the  lake,  or  sat  on  the  root  of  some 
tree,  in  a  sunny  lawn,  to  rest,  to  gaze,  and  to  admire,  our  con- 
versation would  often,  from  the  natural  overflowing  of  two  full 
hearts,  tend  toward  that  fathomless  abyss  of  all  thought,  the 
Infinite!  and  toward  Him  who  alone  can  fill  infinite  space: 
God !  When  I  pronounced  this  last  word,  with  the  heart-felt 
gratitude  which  reveals  so  much  in  one  single  accent,  I  was 
surprised  to  see  her  averted  looks,  or  remark  on  her  brow  and 
in  the  corners  of  her  mouth  a  trace  of  sad  and  painful  incredu- 
lity, which  seemed  to  me  in  contradiction  with  our  enthusiasm. 
One  day,  I  asked  her,  timidly,  the  reason. — "  It  is  that,  that 
word  gives  me  pain,"  she  answered. — "  And  how" — said  I — 
:<  how  can  the  word  that  comprehends  all  life,  all  love,  and  all 
goodness,  give  pain  to  the  most  perfect  of  God's  creations '{" 
— "  Alas  !"  she  said,  with  the  tone  of  a  despairing  soul ;  "  that 
word  represents  the  idea  of  a  Being,  whose  existence  I  have 
passionately  desired  might  not  be  a  dream ;  and  yet  that 
Being,"  she  added,  in  a  low  and  mournful  tone,  "  in  my  eyes, 
and  in  those  of  the  sages  whose  lessons  I  have  received,  is  but 
the  most  marvelous  and  unreal  delusion  of  our  thoughts." — 
"What!"  said  I;  "your  teachers  do  not  believe  there  is  a 
God  ]  But  you,  who  love,  how  can  you  disbelieve  ]  Does  not 
every  throb  of  our  hearts  proclaim  him?'  — "  Oh  !"  she  answer- 
ed, hastily,  "  do  not  interpret  as  folly  the  wisdom  of  those  men 
who  have  uplifted  for  me  the  vails  of  philosophy,  and  have 
caused  the  broad  day  of  reason  and  of  science  to  shine  before 
my  eyes,  instead  of  the  pale  and  glimmering  lamp  with  which 
Superstition  lights  the  voluntary  darkness,  that  she  willfully 
casts  around  her  childish  divinity.  It  is  in  the  God  of  youi 


5G  RAPHAEL. 

mother  and  my  nurse  that  I  no  longer  believe,  and  not  the  God 
of  Nature  and  of  Science.  I  believe  in  a  Being  who  is  th« 
Principle  and  Cause,  spring  and  end  of  all  other  beings,  or 
rather,  who  is  himself  the  eternity,  form,  and  law  of  all  those 
beings,  visible  or  invisible,  intelligent  or  unintelligent,  animate 
or  inanimate,  quick  or  dead,  of  which  is  composed  the  only  real 
name  of  this  Being  of  beings,  the  Infinite  !  But  the  idea  of  the 
incommensurable  greatness,  the  sovereign  fatality,  the  indexible 
and  absolute  necessity  of  all  the  acts  of  this  Being,  whom  you 
call  God  and  we  term  Law,  excludes  from  our  thoughts  all  pre- 
cise intelligibility,  exact  denomination,  reasonable  imagining, 
personal  manifestation,  revelation,  or  incarnation,  and  the  idea 
of  any  possible  relation  between  that  Being  and  ourselves,  even 
of  homage  and  of  prayer.  Wherefore  should  the  Consequence 
pray  to  the  Cause  1 

"  It  is  a  cruel  thought,"  sbe  added  ;  "  for  how  many  blessings, 
prayers,  and  tears  I  should  have  poured  out  at  his  feet  since  I 
have  loved  you !  But,"  she  resumed,  "  I  surprise  and  pain 
you ;  pray  forgive  me.  Is  not  truth  the  first  of  virtues,  if  virtue 
there  be  ]  On  this  single  point  we  can  not  agree  ;  let  us  never 
speak  of  it.  You  have  been  brought  up  by  a  pious  mother,  in 
the  midst  of  a  Christian  family,  and  have  inhaled  with  your  first 
breath  the  holy  credulity  of  your  home.  You  have  been  led  by 
the  hand  into  the  temples ;  you  have  been  shown  images, 
mysteries,  and  altars  ;  you  have  been  taught  prayers,  and  told — 
God  is  here,  who  listens  and  will  answer  you  ;  and  you  believ- 
ed, for  you  were  not  of  an  age  to  inquire.  Since  then,  you 
have  discarded  these  baubles  of  your  childhood,  to  conceive  a 
less  feminine  and  less  puerile  God,  than  this  God  of  the  Chris- 
tian tabernacles;  but  the  first  dazzling  glare  has  not  departed 
from  your  eyes ;  the  real  light  that  you  have  thought  to  see  has 
been  blended,  unknown  to  yourself,  with  that  false  brightness 
which  fascinated  you  on  your  entrance  into  life ;  you  have 
retained  two  weaknesses  of  intelligence ;  mystery  and  prayer. 
There  is  no  mystery  !"  she  said,  in  a  more  solemn  tone  ;  "  there 
is  only  reason,  which  dispels  all  mystery !  It  is  man,  crafty  or 
credulous  man,  who  invented  mystery:  God  made  reason! 
And  prayer  does  not  exist,"  she  continued,  mournfully,  "  for  an 
inflexible  law  will  not  relent,  and  a  necessary  law  can  not  ba 
changed." 

"  The  ancients,  with  that  profound  wisdom  which  was  ofte» 
hidden  beneath  their  popular  ignorance,  knew  that  full  well, 


R  A  P  II  A  EL.  57 


she  added ;  "  for  they  prayed  to  all  the  gods  of  their  invention, 
but  they  never  implored  the  supreme  law  :  Destiny." 

She  was  silent.  "  It  appears  to  me,"  I  said,  after  a  long 
pause,  "  that  the  teachers  who  have  instilled  their  wisdom  into 
you,  have  too  much  subordinated  the  feeling,  to  the  reasoning 
Being,  in  their  theory  of  the  relation  of  God  to  man  :  in  a  word, 
they  have  overlooked  the  heart  in  man — the  heart,  which  is  the 
organ  of  love,  as  intelligence  is  the  organ  of  thought.  The 
imaginings  of  man  in  respect  of  God  may  be  puerile  and 
mistaken,  hut  his  instincts,  which  are  his  unwritten  law,  must  be 
sometimes  right;  if  not,  Nature  would  have  lied  in  creating 
him.  You  do  riot  think  Nature  a  lie,"  I  said,  smiling;  "you, 
who  said  just  now  that  truth  was  perhaps  the  only  virtue  1 
'Now,  whatever  may  have  been  the  intention  of  God  in  giving 
those  two  instincts,  mystery  and  prayer,  whether  He  meant 
thereby  to  show  that  He  was  the  incomprehensible  God,  and 
that  his  name  was  Mystery ;  or,  that  he  desired  that  all  creat- 
ures should  give  him  honor  and  praise,  and  that  prayer  should 
be  the  universal  incense  of  nature — it  is  most  certain  that  man, 
when  he  thinks  on  God,  feels  within  him  two  instincts  :  mystery 
and  adoration.  Reason's  province,"  1  pursued,  '•  is  to  enlighten 
and  disperse  mystery,  more  and  more  every  day,  but  never  to 
dispel  it  entirely.  Prayer  is  the  natural  desire  of  the  heart  to 
pour  forth  unceasingly  its  supplications,  efficacious  or  not,  heard 
or  unheard,  as  a  precious  perfume  on  the  feet  of  God.  What 
matters  it  if  the  perfume  fall  to  the  ground,  or  whether  it  anoint 
the  feet  of  God  ]  It  is  always  a  tribute  of  weakness,  humility, 
and  adoration. 

"But  who  can  say  that  it  is  ever  lost]"  I  added,  in  the  tone 
of  one  whose  hopes  triumph  over  his  doubts;  "who  can  say 
that  Prayer,  the  mysterious  communication  with  invisible  Om- 
nipotence, is  not  in  reality  the  greatest  of  all  the  natural  or  su- 
pernatural powers  of  man]  Who  can  say  that  the  supreme 
and  immortal  Will  has  not  ordained  from  all  eternity  that 
Prayer  should  be  continually  inspired  and  heard,  and  that  man 
should  thus,  by  his  invocations,  participate  in  the  ordering  of 
his  own  destiny  ]  Who  knows  whether  God,  in  his  love,  and 
perpetual  blessing  on  the  beings  which  emanate  from  him,  has 
not  established  this  bond  with  them,  as  the  invisible  chain  which 
links  the  thoughts  of  all  worlds  to  his  ?  Who  knows  but  that, 
in  his  majestic  solitude,  which  he  peoples  alone,  he  has  willed 
that  this  living  murmur,  this  continual  communing  with  Nature, 

n* 


58  RAPHAEL. 


should  ascend  and  descend  continually  in  all  space,  from  him 
to  all  the  beings  that  he  vivifies  and  loves,  and  from  those 
beings  to  him  1  At  all  events,  prayer  is  the  highest  privilege  of 
man,  since  it  allows  him  to  speak  to  God.  If  God  were  deaf 
to  our  prayers,  we  should  still  pray  ;  for  if  in  his  majesty  he 
would  not  hear  us,  still  prayer  would  dignify  man." 

I  saw  that  my  reasonings  touched,  without  convincing  her, 
and  that  the  springs  of  her  soul,  which  science  had  dried  up, 
nad  not  yet  flowed  toward  God.  But  love  was  to  soften  her 
Religion  as  it  had  softened  her  heart;  the  delights  and  anguish 
of  passion  were  soon  to  bring  forth  adoration  and  prayer,  those 
two  perfumes  of  the  souls  that  burn  and  languish.  The  one  IA 
full  of  rapture;  the  other  full  of  tears — both  are  divine! 

XXXI. — In  the  mean  time,  her  health  improved  daily  :  hap- 
piness, solitude  with  a  beloved  companion  (that  Paradise  of 
tender  souls),  and  the  daily  discovery  on  her  part  of  some  new 
mystery  of  thought  in  me  which  corresponded  to  her  own 
nature  ;  the  autumnal  air  in  the  mountains,  which,  like  stoves 
heated  during  summer,  preserve  the  warmth  of  the  sun  until  the 
winter  snows;  our  distant  excursions  to  the  chalets,  or  on  the 
waters;  the  motion  of  the  boat,  or  the  gentle  pace  of  the  mules; 
the  milk  brought  frothing  from  the  pastures,  in  the  wooden 
cups  the  shepherds  carve ;  and  above  all,  the  gentle  excitement, 
the  peaceful  reverie,  the  continual  infatuation  of  a  heart  which 
first  love  upheld  as  with  wings,  and  led  on  from  thought  to 
thought,  from  dream  to  dream,  through  a  new-found  heaven — 
all  seemed  to  contribute  visibly  to  her  recovery.  Every  day 
seemed  to  bring  fresh  youth  ;  it  was  as  a  convalescence  of  the 
soul,  which  showed  itself  on  the  features.  Her  face  which  had 
been  at  first  slightly  marked  round  the  eyes  with  those  dark 
and  bluish  tints,  which  seem  like  the  impress  of  the  fingers  of 
Death,  gradually  recovered  the  roundness  of  the  cheek,  the 
mantling  blood,  the  soft  down,  and  blooming  complexion  of  a 
young  girl  who  has  been  on  the  mountains,  and  whose  cheek 
has  been  visited  by  the  first  cold  bracing  winds  from  the  gla- 
ciers. Her  lips  had  recovered  their  fullness,  her  eyes  their 
brightness;  the  lid  no  longer  drooped,  and  the  eye  itself  seemed 
to  swim  in  that  continual  and  luminous  mist  which  rises  like  a 
vapor  from  the  burning  heart,  and  is  condensed  into  tears,  on 
the  eye,  whose  fire  absorbs  these  tears,  that  always  rise,  and 
never  flow.  There  was  more  strength  in  her  attitudes,  tnor« 


RAPHAEL.  59 

pliancy  in  her  movements;  her  step  was  light  and  lively  as  a 
child's.  Whenever  we  entered  the  yard  of  the  house  on  out 
retutTi  from  our  rambles,  the  old  doctor  and  his  family  would 
express  their  surprise  at  the  prodigious  change  that  a  day  had 
wrought  in  her  appearance,  and  wonder  at  the  life  and  light 
that  sJbe  seemed  to  shed  round  her. 

In  truth,  happiness  seemed  to  encompass  her  with  a  radiant 
atmosphere,  in  which  she  not  only  walked  herself,  but  envel- 
oped all  those  who  looked  upon  her.  This  radiance  of  beauty, 
this  atmosphere  of  love,  are  not,  as  many  think  only  the  fancies 
of  a  poet ;  the  poet  merely  sees  more  distinctly  what  escapes 
the  blind  or  indifferent  eye  of  other  men.  It  has  often  been 
said  of  a  lovely  woman,  that  she  illumines  the  darkness  of  night ; 
it  might  be  said  of  Julie  that  she  warmed  the  surrounding  air. 
1  lived  and  moved,  enveloped  in  this  warm  emanation  of  her 
reviving  beauty  ;  others  but  felt  it  as  they  passed. 

XXXII. — When  I  was  obliged  to  leave  her  for  a  short  time, 
and  returned  into  my  room,  I  felt,  even  at  mid-day,  as  if  I  had 
been  immured  in  a  dungeon  without  air  or  light.  The  brightest 
sun  afforded  me  no  light,  unless  its  rays  were  reflected  by  her 
eyes.  I  admired  her  more,  the  more  I  saw  her;  and  could  not 
believe  she  was  a  being  of  the  same  order  as  myself.  The 
divine  nature  of  her  love  had  become  a  part  of  the  creed  of  my 
imagination  ;  and  in  spirit  I  was  ever  prostrate  before  the  being 
who  appeared  to  me  too  tender  to  be  a  divinity — too  divine  to 
be  a  woman !  I  sought  a  name  for  her  and  found  none.  I 
called  her  Mystery !  and  under  that  vague  and  indefinite  title, 
offered  her  worship  which  partook  of  earth  by  its  tenderness — 
of  a  dream  by  its  enthusiasm — of  reality  by  her  presence,  and 
of  Heaven  by  my  adoration. 

She  had  obliged  me  to  confess  that  I  had  sometimes  written 
verses,  but  I  had  never  shown  her  any.  She  did  not  much  like 
that  artificial  and  set  form  of  speech,  which,  when  it  does  not 
idealize,  generally  impairs  the  simplicity  of  feeling  and  ex- 
pression. Her  nature  was  too  full  of  impulse,  too  feeling,  and 
too  serious,  to  bend  itself  to  all  the  precision,  form,  and  delay, 
of  written  poetry.  She  was  Poetry  without  a  lyre — true  as  the 
heart,  simple  as  the  untutored  thought,  dreamy  as  night,  brill- 
iant as  day,  swift  as  lightning,  boundless  as  space  !  No  rules 
of  harmony  could  have  bounded  the  infinite  music  of  her  mind  ; 
her  vei-y  voice  was  a  perpetual  melody,  that  no  cadence  of  verse 


60  RAPHAEL. 

could  have  equaled.  Had  I  lived  long  with  her,  I  should  nevel 
have  read  or  written  poetry.  She  was  the  living  poem  of  Nature 
and  of  myself;  my  thoughts  were  in  her  heart,  my  imagery  in 
her  eyes,  and  my  harmony  in  her  voice. 

She  had  in  her  room  a  few  volumes  of  the  principal  poets  of 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  of  the  empire,  such  as 
Delille  and  Fontancs,  but  their  high-sounding  and  material 
poety  was  not  suited  to  us.  She  had  been  lulled  by  the  melo- 
dious murmur  of  the  waves  of  the  tropic,  and  her  soul  contained 
treasures  of  love,  imagination,  and  melancholy,  which  all  the 
voices  of  the  air  and  waters  could  not  have  expressed.  She 
would  sometimes  attempt  with  me  to  read  these  books,  on  the 
strength  of  their  reputation,  but  would  throw  them  down  again 
impatiently ;  they  gave  no  sound  beneath  her  touch,  like  those 
broken  chords  which  remain  voiceless  when  we  strike  the  keys. 
The  music  of  her  heart  was  in  mine,  but  I  could  never  give  it 
forth  to  the  world  ;  and  the  verses  she  was  one  day  to  inspire, 
were  destined  to  sound  only  on  her  grave.  She  never  knew 
before  she  died  who  she  had  loved.  In  her  eyes  I  was  her 
brother,  and  it  would  have  mattered  little  to  her  that  I  had 
been  a  poet  for  the  rest  of  the  world.  Her  love  saw  nothing  in 
me,  but  myself. 

Once  only  I  involuntarily  betrayed  before  her  the  poor  gift 
of  poetry  that  I  possessed,  and  which  ?%e  neither  suspected  nor 
desired  in  me.  My  friend  Louis  *  *  *  had  come  to  stay  a  few 
days  with  us.  The  evening  had  been  spent  till  midnight  in 
reading,  in  confidential  talk,  in  musing,  in  sadness,  and  in  smiles. 
We  wondered  to  see  three  young  lives,  which  a  short  time  be- 
fore were  unknown  to  each  other,  now  united  and  identified 
beneath  the  same  roof,  at  the  same  fireside  with  the  same 
murmur  of  autumnal  winds  around,  in  a  cottage  of  the  mount- 
ains of  Savoy;  we  strove  to  foresee  by  what  sport  of  providence, 
or  chance,  the  stormy  winds  of  life  might  scatter  or  reunite  us 
once  more.  These  distants  vistas  of  the  horizon  of  our  future 
lives  had  saddened  us  and  we  remained  silent  round  the  little 
tea-table  on  which  we  were  leaning.  At  last,  Louis,  who  was  a 
poet,  felt  a  mournful  inspiration  rising  in  his  heart,  and  wished  to 
write  it  down.  She  gave  him  paper  and  a  pencil,  and  he  leaned 
on  the  marble  chimney-piece  and  wrote  a  few  stanzas,  plaintive 
and  tearful  as  the  funeral  strophes  of  Gilbert.  He  resembled 
Gilbert,  and  he  might  have  written  those  lines  of  his  which  will 
live  as  long  as  the  lamentations  of  Job,  in  the  language  of  men  • 


RAPHAEL,.  01 


Au  banquet  de  la  vie,  infortui .e  convive, 

J'apparus  un  jour  et  je  meurs  : 
Je  meurs,  et  sur  ma  tombe,  ou  lentetnent  j'arrive, 

Nul  ne  viendra  verser  des  pleurs  ! 

Louis's  verses  had  affected  me ;  I  took  the  pencil  from  him, 
and  withdrawing  for  an  instant  to  the  end  of  the  room,  I  wrote 
in  my  turn  the  following  verses,  which  will  die  with  me,  un- 
known to  all ;  they  were  the  first  verses  that  sprung  from  my 
heart,  and  not  from  my  imagination.  I  read  them  out,  without 
daring  to  raise  my  eyes  on  her,  to  whom  they  were  addressed 
They  ran  thus : 

******* 

but  no  !     I  efface  them  {     My  love  was  all  my  genius,  and  tney 
have  departed  together  ! 

As  1  finished  reading  the  verses,  I  saw  on  Julie's  face,  on 
which  the  light  of  the  lamp  fell,  such  a  tender  expression  of 
surprise,  and  such  superhuman  beauty,  that  I  stood  uncertain, 
as  my  verses  had  expressed  it,  between  the  woman  and  the 
angel — between  love  and  adoration.  This  latter  feeling  pre- 
dominated at  last  in  my  heart,  and  in  that  of  my  friend.  We 
fell  on  our  knees  before  the  sofa,  and  kissed  the  end  of  the 
black  shawl  which  enveloped  her  feet.  The  verses  seemed  to 
her  merely  an  instantaneous  and  solitary  expression  of  my  feel- 
ings toward  her ;  she  praised  them,  but  never  mentioned  them 
again.  She  much  preferred  our  familiar  discourse,  or  even  our 
pensive  silence,  in  each  other's  company,  to  these  exercises  of 
the  mind,  which  profane  our  feelings  rather  than  reveal  them. 
Louis  left  us  after  a  few  days. 

XXXIII. — In  consequence  of  these  first  verses  of  mine, 
which  were  but  one  feeble  strophe  of  the  perpetual  hymn  of 
my  heart,  she  requested  me  to  write  an  ode  for  her,  which  she 
would  address  as  a  tribute  of  admiration,  and  as  a  specimen  of 
my  talents,  to  one  of  the  men  of  her  Paris  acquaintance,  foi 
whom  she  felt  the  greatest  respect  and  attachment,  M.  de 
Bonald.  I  knew  nothing  of  him  but  his  name,  and  the  well- 
deserved  renown  then  attached  to  it  as  that  of  a  Christian,  a 
philosopher,  and  a  legislator.  I  fancied  that  I  was  to  address 
a  modern  Moses,  who  derived  from  the  rays  of  another  Mount 
Sinai  the  divine  light  which  he  shed  upon  human  laws.  I 
wrote  the  ode  in  one  night,  and  read  it  the  next  morning,  be- 
neath a  spreading  chestnut  tree,  to  her  who  had  inspired  it 


62  RAPHAEL. 

She  made  me  read  it  three  times  over,  and  in  the  evening  she 
copied  it  with  her  light  and  steady  hand.  Her  writing  flew 
upon  the  paper  like  the  shadow  of  the  wings  of  thought,  with 
the  swiftness,  elegance,  and  freedom  of  a  bird  upon  the  wing, 
The  next  day  she  sent  it  to  Paris.  M.  de  Bonald  replied  by 
many  obliging  auguries  respecting  my  talents.  This  was  the 
beginning  of  my  acquaintance  with  that  most  excellent  man, 
whose  character  I  have  always  admired  and  loved  since,  with- 
out sharing  his  theocratical  doctrines.  My  approval  of  his 
creed,  of  which  I  knew  nothing,  was  at  that  time  a  concession 
to  my  love ;  at  a  later  period,  it  would  have  been  an  homage 
rendered  to  his  virtues.  M.  de  Bonald  was,  like  M.  de  Maistre, 
a  prophet  of  the  past,  one  of  those  men  whose  ideas  were  of 
by-gone  days,  and  to  whom  we  bow  with  veneration,  as  we  see 
them  seated  on  the  threshold  of  futurity ;  they  will  not  pass 
onward,  but  tarry  to  listen  to  the  sublime  lament  of  all  that 
dies  in  the  human  mind. 

XXXIV. — Autumn  was  already  gone;  but  the  sun  shone 
out  now  and  then  between  the  clouds,  and  lighted  and  warmed 
the  mild  winter  which  had  succeeded.  We  tried  to  deceive 
ourselves,  and  to  say  that  it  was  still  Autumn,  so  much  did  we 
dread  to  recognize  Winter,  that  was  to  separate  us.  The  snow 
sometimes  fell  in  the  morning  in  light  flakes  on  the  roses  and 
everlastings  in  the  garden,  like  the  white  down  of  the  swans 
which  we  often  saw  traversing  the  air.  At  noon  the  snow 
melted,  and  then  there  were  delightful  hours  on  the  lake.  The 
last  rays  of  the  sun  seemed  to  be  warmer  when  they  played  on 
the  waters.  The  fig-trees  which  hung  from  the  rocks  exposed 
to  the  south,  in  the  sheltered  coves,  had  kept  their  wide  spread- 
ing leaves ;  and  the  reverberation  of  the  sun  upon  the  rocks, 
imparted  to  them  the  splendid  coloring  and  the  warmth  of 
summer  evenings.  But  these  hours  glided  as  swiftly  by  as  the 
stroke  of  the  oars  which  served  to  take  us  round  the  foam- 
covered  rocks,  that  form  the  southern  border  of  the  lake.  The 
glancing  rays  of  the  sun  on  the  fir-trees,  the  green  moss,  the 
winter  birds,  more  fully  feathei'ed  and  more  familiar  than  those 
of  summer;  the  mountain  streams,  whose  white  and  frothing 
waters  dashed  down  the  sides  of  the  sloping  meadows,  and, 
meeting  in  some  ravine,  fell  with  sonorous  and  splashing  mur- 
murs from  the  black  and  shining  rocks  into  the  lake ;  the 
cadenced  sound  of  the  oar,  which  seemed  to  accompany  us 


RAPHAEL.  63 

with  its  mysterious  and  plaintive  regrets,  like  some  friendly 
voice  hidden  beneath  the  waters ;  the  perfect  repose  we  felt  in 
this  warm  and  luminous  atmosphere,  so  near  each  other,  and 
separated  from  the  world  by  an  abyss  of  waters,  made  us  feel 
at  times  so  great  an  enjoyment  in  the  feeling  of  existence,  such 
fullness  of  inward  joy,  such  an  overflowing  of  peace  and  love, 
that  we  might  have  defied  heaven  itself  to  add  to  our  felicity. 
But  with  this  happiness  was  mixed  the  consciousness  that  it 
was  soon  to  end ;  each  stroke  of  the  oar  resounded  in  our 
hearts  as  one  step  of  the  day  that  brought  us  nearer  to  separa- 
tion. Who  knows  whether  these  trembling  leaves  may  not 
to-morrow  have  fallen  in  the  waters ;  if  this  moss  on  which 
we  still  can  sit  may  not  to-morrow  be  covered  with  a  thick 
mantle  of  snow ;  if  this  blue  sky,  these  illumined  rocks  and 
sparkling  waves,  may  not,  during  the  mists  of  this  next  night, 
be  enveloped  and  confounded  in  one  dim  and  wintry  ocean  ] 

A  long  sigh  would  escape  our  lips  at  thoughts  like  these ; 
but  we  never  communicated  them  to  each  other,  for  fear  of 
arousing  misfortune  by  naming  it.  Oh  !  who,  in  the  course  of 
his  life,  has  not  felt  some  joy  without  security  and  without  a 
morrow  ;  when  life  seems  concentrated  in  one  short  hour  which 
we  would  wish  to  make  eternal,  and  which  we  feel  slipping 
uvvay,  minute  by  minute,  while  we  listen  to  the  pendulum  which 
;ourits  the  seconds,  or  look  at  the  hand  that  seems  to  gallop  o'er 
the  dial,  or  watch  a  carriage  wheel,  of  which  each  turn  abridges 
distance,  or  hearken  to  the  splashing  of  a  prow  that  distances 
She  waves,  and  brings  us  nearer  to  the  shore  where  we  must 
descend  from  the  heaven  of  our  dreams,  on  the  bleak  and  bar- 
ren strand  of  harsh  reality. 

XXXV. — One  sunny  evening,  when  our  boat  lay  in  a  calm 
and  sheltered  creek,  formed  by  the  Mont  du  Chat,  and  that  we 
were  delightfully  lulled  by  the  distant  sound  of  a  cascade  which 
perpetually  murmurs  in  the  grottoes  through  which  it  filtrates, 
before  losing  itself  in  the  abyss  of  waters,  our  boatmen  landed 
to  draw  some  nets  they  had  set  the  day  before.  We  remained 
alone  in  the  boat,  which  was  moored  to  the  branch  of  a  fig-tree 
by  a  slender  rope  ;  the  motion  of  the  boat  caused  the  branch  to 
bend  and  break,  without  our  being  aware  of  it,  and  we  drifted 
out  to  the  middle  of  the  bay,  nearly  three  hundred  yards  from 
the  perpendicular  rocks  with  which  it  is  surrounded.  The  wa- 
ters of  the  lake  in  this  part  were  of  that  bronzed  color,  and  had 


64  RAPHAEL. 

that  molten  appearance  ana  look  of  heavy  immobility,  which  th« 
shade  of  overhanging  cliffs  always  gives  ;  and  the  perpendicula; 
rocks  which  surrounded  it  indicated  the  unfathomable  depth  of 
its  waters.  I  might  have  taken  up. the  oars  and  returned  to 
shore,  but  we  felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure  at  our  loneliness,  and  the 
absence  of  any  form  of  living  nature.  We  would  have  wished 
to  wander  thus,  on  a  boundless  firmament,  instead  of  on  a  sea 
with  shores.  We  no  longer  heard  the  voices  of  the  boatmen, 
who  had  gone  along  the  Savoy  shore,  and  were  now  hidden  from 
our  view  by  some  projecting  rocks ;  we  only  heard  the  distant 
trickling  of  the  cascade,  the  harmonious  sighs  of  the  pines,  when 
some  playful  breeze  swept,  for  an  instant,  through  the  still  and 
heavy  air,  and  the  low  ripple  of  the  water  against  the  sides  of 
the  boat,  which  gently  undulated  at  our  slightest  movement. 

Our  boat  lay  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sunshine — the  head  in 
sunshine,  and  the  stern  in  shade.  I  was  sitting  at  Julie's  feet 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  as  on  the  first  day  when  I  brought  her 
back  from  Haute-Combe.  We  took  delight  in  calling  to  remem- 
brance every  circumstance  of  that  first  day,  that  mysterious  era 
from  which  the  world  commenced  for  us — for  that  day  was  the 
date  of  our  meeting  and  of  our  love !  She  was  half  reclining, 
with  one  arm  hanging  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  the  other  leaned 
upon  my  shoulder,  and  her  hand  played  with  a  lock  of  my  long 
hair;  my  head  was  thrown  back,  so  that  I  could  only  see  the 
heavens  above,  and  her  face,  which  stood  out  on  the  blue  back 
ground  of  the  sky.  She  bent  over  me,  as  if  to  contemplate  her 
sun  on  my  brow,  her  light  in  my  eyes ;  an  expression  of  deep, 
calm,  and  ineffable  happiness  was  diffused  over  her  features 
and  gave  to  her  beauty  a  radiance  and  splendor  which  was  in 
harmony  with  the  surrounding  glory  of  the  sky.  Suddenly  1 
saw  her  turn  pale  and  withdraw  her  arms  from  the  side  of  tho 
boat,  and  from  my  shoulder  ;  she  started  up  as  if  awaked  from 
sleep,  covered  for  one  instant  her  face  with  her  two  hands,  and 
remained  in  deep  and  silent  thought ;  then  withdrawing  her 
hands,  which  were  wet  with  tears,  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  calm  and 
serene  determination,  "  Oh  !  let  us  die  !  .  .  ." 

After  these  words  she  remained  silent  for  an  instant,  then  re- 
sumed :  "  Yes  !  let  us  die,  for  earth  has  nothing  more  to  give, 
and  Heaven  nothing  more  to  promise  !"  She  gazed  at  the  sky 
and  mountain,  the  lake  and  its  translucid  waves  around  us. 
"  Seest  thou,"  she  said  (it  was  the  first  and  the  last  time  that 
sh«  ever  used  that  form  of  speech  which  is  tender  or  solemn 


RAPHAEL.  G5 

according  as  we  address  God  or  man),  "  seest  thou  that  all  ia 
ready  around  us  for  the  hlessed  close  of  our  two  lives  !  Seest 
thou  the  sun  of  the  brightest  of  our  days  which  sets,  not  to  rise 
for  us  pei-haps  to-morrow  ]  Seest  thou  the  mountains  glass 
themselves  for  the  last  time  in  the  lake ;  they  stretch  out  their 
long  shadows  toward  us,  as  if  to  say,  Wrap  yourselves  in  this 
shroud  which  I  extend  toward  you  !  See  !  the  deep  and  clear, 
the  silent  waves  have  prepared  for  us  a  sandy  couch  from  which 
no  man' shall  wake  us,  and  tell  us  to  be  gone  !  No  human  eye 
can  see  us.  None  will  know  from  what  mysterious  cause  the 
empty  bark  has  been  washed  ashore  upon  some  rock.  No  rip- 
ple on  these  waters  will  betray  to  the  curious  or  the  indifferent, 
the  spot  where  our  two  bodies  slid  beneath  the  wave,  in  one 
embrace ;  where  our  two  souls  rose  mingled  in  the  surrounding 
ether ;  no  sound  of  earth  will  follow  us  but  the  slight  ripple  of 

the  closing  wave  ! Oh  !  let  us  die  in  this  delight  of  soul, 

and  feel  of  death  only  its  entrancing  joy.  One  day  we  shall 
wish  to  die,  and  we  shall  die  less  happy.  I  am  a  few  years 
older  than  you,  and  this  difference,  which  is  unfelt  now,  will  in- 
crease with  time.  The  little  beauty  which  has  attracted  you 
will  early  fade,  and  you  will  only  recall  with  wonder  the  mem- 
ory of  your  departed  enthusiasm.  Besides,  I  am  to  you  but  as 

a  spirit  ....  you  will  seek  another  happiness I  should 

die  of  jealousy  if  you  found  it  with  another and  I  should 

die  of  grief  if  I  saw  you  unhappy  through  me  ! Oh  !  let 

us  die,  let  us  die !  let  us  efface  the  dark  or  doubtful  future  with 
one  last  sigh,  which  will  only  leave  on  our  lips  the  unallayed 
taste  of  complete  felicity." 

At  the  same  moment,  my  heart  spoke  to  me  as  forcibly  as  she 
did,  and  said  what  her  voice  said  to  my  ear,  what  her  looks  said 
to  my  eyes,  what  solemn,  mute,  funereal  nature,  in  the  splen- 
dor of  her  last  hour,  said  to  all  my  senses.  The  two  voices  that 
I  heard,  the  inward  and  the  outer  voice,  said  the  same  words, 
as  if  one  had  been  the  echo  or  translation  of  the  other.  I  for- 
got the  universe,  and  I  answered,  "  Let  us  die  !" 

I  wound  the  fisherman's  ropes  which  I  found  in  the  boat  sev- 
eral times  round  her  body  and  mine,  which  were  bound  as  in 
the  same  winding  sheet.  I  took  her  up  in  my  arms,  which  I  had 
left  disengaged  in  order  to  precipitate  her  with  me  into  the 
lake. 

At  the  very  instant  that  I  was  taking  the  spring  which  would 
forever  have  buried  us  in  the  waters,  1  saw  her  turn  pale,  her* 


GO  RAPHAEL. 

head  drooped,  its  lifeless  weight  sank  upon  my  shoulder,  and  I 
felt  her  knees  give  way  beneath  her  body.  Excessive  emotion 
and  the  joy  of  dying  together,  had  forestalled  death.  She  had 
fainted  in  my  arms.  The  idea  of  taking  advantage  of  her  in- 
sensible state  to  hurry  her,  unknown  to  herself,  and  perhapa 
against  her  will,  into  my  grave,  struck  me  with  horror  !  I  fell 
back  into  the  boat  with  my  burden ;  I  loosed  the  ropes  that 
bound  us,  and  laid  her  on  the  seat ;  I  dipped  my  hands  into  the 
lake  and  sprinkled  the  cold  drops  of  water  on  her  lips  and  fore- 
head. I  know  not  how  long  she  remained  thus  without  color, 
voice,  or  motion.  When  she  first  opened  her  eyes  and  regained 
consciousness,  night  was  coming  on,  and  the  slow  drift  of  the 
boat  had  carried  us  into  the  middle  of  the  lake. 

"  God  wills  it  not,"  I  said.  "  We  live  ;  what  we  thought  the 
privilege  of  our  love,  was  a  double  crime.  Is  there  no  one  to 
whom  we  belong  on  earth?  no  one  in  Heaven]"  I  added,  look- 
ing upward  reverentially,  as  though  I  had  seen  in  the  firmament 
the  sovereign  Judge  and  Lord  of  our  destinies.  "  Speak  no 
more  of  it,"  she  said,  in  a  low  and  hurried  tone  ;  "  never  speak 
of  it  again!  You  have  chosen  that  I  should  live;  I  will  live  ; 
my  crime  was  not  in  dying,  but  in  taking  you  with  me !"  There 
was  something  of  bitterness  and  tender  reproach  in  her  tone  and 
in  her  look.  "It  may  be,"  said  1,  replying  to  her  thoughts,  "it 
may  be  that  Heaven  itself  has  no  such  hours  as  those  we  have 
just  passed  ;  but  life  has ;  that  is  enough  to  make  me  love  it." 
She  soon  recovered  her  bloom  and  her  serenity.  I  seized  the 
oars,  and  slowly  rowed  back  to  the  little  sandy  beach,  where  we 
heard  the  voices  of  the  boatmen,  who  had  lighted  a  fire  beneath 
a  projecting  rock.  We  recrossed  the  lake,  and  returned  home 
nlently  and  thoughtfully. 

XXXVI. — In  the  evening,  when  I  went  into  her  room,  I 
found  her  seated  in  tears  before  her  little  table,  where  several 
open  letters  were  lying  scattered  among  the  tea-things.  "  We 
had  better  have  died  at  once,  for  here  is  the  lingering  death  of 
separation,  which  begins  for  me,"  she  said,  pointing  to  some 
letters  which  bore  the  postmark  of  Paris  and  Geneva. 

Her  husband  wrote,  that  he  began  to  be  very  anxious  at  her 
long  absence,  at  a  season  of  the  year  when  the  weather  might 
become  inclement  from  day  to  day  ;  that  he  felt  himself  gradu 
ally  declining,  and  that  he  wished  to  embrace  and  bless  her  be- 
fore he  died.  His  mournful  entreaties  were  intermingled  with 


RAPHAEL.  07 

many  expressions  of  paternal  fondness,  and  some  sportive  allu- 
sions to  the  fair  young  brother,  who  made  her  forget  her  othei 
friends.  The  other  letter  was  from  the  Genevese  doctor,  who  was 
to  have  come  to  take  her  hack  to  Paris.  He  wrote  to  say  that 
he  was  obliged  unexpectedly  to  leave  home  to  attend  a  German 
prince  who  required  his  care,  and  that  he  sent  in  his  stead  a 
respectable,  trustworthy  man,  who  would  accompany  her  to 
Paris,  and  act  as  her  courier  on  the  road.  This  man  had 
arrived,  and  her  departure  was  fixed  for  the  day  after  the 
morrow  ! 

Although  this  news  had  been  long  foreseen,  it  affected  us  as 
though  it  had  been  quite  unexpected.  We  passed  a  long  even- 
ing and  nearly  half  the  nighj;  in  silence,  leaning  opposite  to  one 
another  on  the  little  table,  and  neither  daring  to  look  at  each 
other,  or  to  speak,  for  fear  of  bursting  into  tears.  We  strove 
to  interrupt  the  speechless  agony  of  our  hearts  by  a  few  uncon- 
nected words,  but  these  were  said  in  a  deep  and  hollow  voice, 
which  resounded  in  the  room  like  tear-drops  on  a  cofHri.  I 
had  instantly  determined  to  go  also. 

XXXVII. — The  next  day  was  the  eve  of  our  separation.  The 
morning,  as  if  to  mock  us,  1'ose  more  bright  and  warm  than  in 
the  fairest  days  of  October. 

While  the  trunks  were  being  packed,  and  the  carriage  got 
ready,  we  started  with  the  mules  and  guides.  We  visited  both 
hill  and  valley,  to  say  farewell,  and  to  make,  as  it  were,  a  pil- 
grimage of  love  to  all  the  spots  where  we  had  first  seen  each 
other,  then  met  and  walked;  where  we  had  sat,  and  talked,  and 
loved,  during  the  long  and  heavenly  intercourse  between  our- 
selves and  lonely  Nature.  We  began  by  the  lovely  hill  of 
Tvesserves,  which  rises  like  a  verdant  cliff  between  the  valley 
<">*'  Aix  and  the  lake;  its  sides,  that  rise  almost  perpendicularly 
*'rom  the  water's  edge,  are  covered  with  chestnut  trees,  rivaling 
>*iose  of  Sicily;  through  their  branches,  which  overhang  the 
*vater,  one  sees  snatches  of  the  blue  lake,  or  of  the  sky,  accord 
«g  as  one  looks  high  or  low.  It  was  on  the  velvet  of  the  moss« 
covered  roots  of  these  noble  trees,  which  have  seen  successive 
generations  of  young  men  and  women  pass  like  ants  beneath 
<heir  shade,  that  we  in  our  contemplative  hours  had  dreamed 
our  fairest  dreams.  From  thence  we  descended  by  a  steep  de- 
clivity to  a  small  solitary  chateau  called  Bon  Port.  This  little 
castle  is  so  embosomed  in  the  chestnut  trees  of  Tresserves  on 


68  RAPHAEL. 

the  land  side,  and  so  well  hidden  on  the  water  side  in  the  deep 
windings  of  a  sheltered  bay,  that  it  is  difficult  to  see  it,  either 
from  the  mountain,  or  from  the  little  sea  of  Bourget.  A  terrace 
with  a  few  fig-trees  divides  the  chateau  from  the  sandy  beach, 
where  the  gentle  waves  continually  come  rippling  in,  to  lick 
the  shore  and  murmuringly  expire.  Oh,  how  we  envied  the 
fortunate  possessors  of  this  retreat  unknown  to  men,  hidden  in 
the  trees  and  waters,  and  only  visited  by  the  birds  of  the  lake, 
the  sunshine,  and  the  soft  south  wind.  We  blessed  it  a  thou- 
sand times  in  its  repose,  and  prayed  that  it  might  shelter  hearts 
like  ours. 

XXXVIII. — From  Bon  Port  we,  proceeded  toward  the  high 
mountains  which  overlook  the  valley  between  Chambery  and 
Geneva,  going  round  by  the  northern  side  of  the  hill  of  Tres- 
serves.  We  saw  once  more  the  meadows,  the  pastures,  the 
cottages  hidden  beneath  the  walnut  trees,  and  the  grassy  slopes, 
where  the  young  heifers  play ;  their  little  bell  tinkles  continu- 
ally, to  give  notice  of  their  wandering  march  through  the  grass 
to  the  shepherd,  who  tends  them  at  a  distance.  We  ascended 
to  the  highest  chalets ;  the  winter  wind  had  already  scorched 
the  tips  of  the  grass.  We  remembered  the  delightful  hours  we 
had  spent  there,  the  words  we  had  spoken,  the  fond  delusion 
we  had  entertained  of  an  entire  separation  from  the  world,  the 
sighs  we  had  confided  to  the  mountain  winds  and  rays  to  waft 
them  to  heaven.  We  recalled  all  our  hours  of  peace  and  hap- 
piness so  swiftly  flown,  all  our  words,  dreams,  gestures,  looks, 
and  wishes  as  one  strips  a  dwelling  that  one  leaves  of  all  that 
that  is  most  precious.  We  mentally  buried  all  these  treasures 
of  memory  and  hope  within  the  walls  of  these  wooden  chalets 
which  would  remain  closed  until  the  spring,  to  find  them  entire 
on  our  return,  if  ever  we  returned  ! 

XXXIX. — We  came  down  by  the  wooded  slopes  to  the 
foaming  bed  of  a  cascade.  There  we  saw  a  small  funereal 
monument  erected  to  the  memory  of  a  young  and  lovely  wom- 
an, Madame  de  Broc  ;  she  fell  some  years  ago  into  this  whirl- 
pool, whose  foaming  waters  gave  up  a  long  while  after  a  part 
of  her  white  dress,  and  thus  caused  her  body  to  be  found  in 
the  deep  grotto  in  which  it  had  been  ingulfed.  Lovers  often 
come  and  visit  this  watery  tomb ;  their  hearts  feel  heavy,  and 
they  draw  closer  to  each  other  as  they  think  how  their  fragile 


RAPHAEL.  69 


felicity  may  be  dashed  to  atoms  by  one  false  step  on  the  slip- 
pery rock ! 

From  this  cascade,  which  bears  the  name  of  Madame  de 
Broc,  we  walked  in  silence  toward  the  Chateau  de  Saint  Inno- 
cent, from  whence  one  commands  an  extensive  view  of  the 
whole  lake.  We  got  down  from  our  mules  beneath  the  shade 
of  some  lofty  oaks,  which  were  interspersed  here  and  there  with 
a  few  patches  of  heath.  It  was  a  lonely  place  at  that  time,  but 
since  then,  a  rich  planter,  on  his  return  to  his  native  land,  has 
built  himself  a  country  house,  and  planted  a  garden  in  these, 
his  paternal  acres.  Our  mules  were  turned  loose,  and  left  to 
graze  in  the  wood,  under  the  care  of  the  children  who  acted  as 
our  guides.  We  walked  on  alone  from  tree  to  tree,  from  one 
glade  to  another  on  the  narrow  neck  of  land,  until  we  reached 
the  extreme  point,  where  we  saw  the  shining  lake,  and  heard 
its  splashing  waters.  This  wood  of  Saint  Innocent  is  a  promon- 
tory that  stretches  out  into  the  lake  at  the  wildest  and  most 
lonely  part  of  its  shores ;  it  ends  in  some  rocks  of  gray  granite, 
which  are  sometimes  washed  by  the  foam  of  the  wind- tossed 
waves,  but  are  dry  and  shining  when  the  waters  subside  into 
repose.  We  sat  down  on  two  stones  close  to  each  other.  Be- 
fore us,  the  dark  pile  of  the  Abbey  of  Haute-Combe  rose  on 
the  opposite  shore  of  the  lake.  Our  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  little 
white  speck  that  seemed  to  shine  at  the  foot  of  the  gloomy  ter- 
races of  the  monastery.  It  was  the  fisherman's  house,  where 
we  had  been  thrown  together  by  the  waves,  and  united  forever 
by  that  chance  meeting;  it  was  the  room  where  we  had  spent 
that  heavenly  and  yet  funereal  night  which  had  decided  the 
fate  of  both  our  lives !  "It  was  there  !"  she  said,  stretching 
out  her  arm,  and  pointing  to  the  bright  speck,  which  was 
scarcely  visible  in  the  distance  and  darkness  of  the  opposite 
shore.  "  Will  there  come  a  day  and  a  place,"  she  added, 
mournfully,  in  which  the  memory  of  all  we  felt  there  during 
those  deathless  hours  will  appear  to  you,  in  the  remoteness  of 
the  past,  but  as  that  little  speck  on  the  dark  background  of 
yonder  shore  1" 

I  could  not  reply  to  these  words ;  her  tone,  her  doubts,  the 
prospect  of  death,  inconstancy,  and  frailty,  and  the  possibility 
of  forgetfulness,  had  struck  me  to  the  heart,  and  filled  me  with 
sad  forebodings.  I  burst  into  tears.  1  hid  my  face  in  my 
hands,  and  turned  toward  the  evening-breeze,  that  it  might  dry 
my  tears  in  my  eyes ;  but  she  had  seen  them. 


RAPHAEL. 

"  Raphael,"  she  resumed,  with  greater  tenderness  :  "  No  ! 
you  will  never  forget  me.  I  know  it;  I  feel  it;  but  love  is 
short  and  life  is  slow.  You  will  live  many  years  beyond  me. 
You  will  drain  all  that  is  sweet,  or  powerful,  or  bitter  in  the 
cup  that  nature  offers  to  the  lips  of  man.  You  will  be  a  man ! 
1  know  it  by  your  sensibility,  which  is  at  once  manly  and  femi- 
nine. You  will  be  a  man,  to  the  full  extent  of  all  the  wretch- 
edness and  dignity  of  that  name,  by  which  God  has  called  one 
of  his  strangest  creatures !  In  one  of  your  aspirations  there  is 
breath  for  a  thousand  lives !  You  will  live  with  all  the  energy 
and  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  word — life  !  I ..."  she  stopped 
for  an  instant,  and  raised  her  eyes  and  arms  to  Heaven,  as  if  in 
thankfulness  :  "  I — I  have  lived  ! — I  have  lived  enough,"  she 
resumed,  in  a  contented  tone,  "  since  I  have  inhaled,  to  bear  it 
forever  within  me,  the  spirit  of  the  soul  that  I  waited  for  on 
earth,  and  which  would  vivify  me  even  in  death,  from  whence 
you  once  recalled  me.  ...  I  shall  die  young,  and  without  regret 
now,  for  I  have  drained  at  a  single  draught  the  life  that  you 
will  not  exhaust,  before  your  dark  hair  has  become  as  white 
as  the  spray  that  dashes  over  your  feet. 

"  This  sky,  this  lake,  these  shores,  these  mountains,  have  been 
the  scene  of  my  only  real  life  here  below.  Swear  to  me  to 
blend  so  completely  in  your  remembrance  this  sky,  this  lake, 
these  shores,  these  mountains,  with  my  memory,  that  their  im- 
age and  mine  may  henceforward  be  inseparable  for  you  ;  that 
this  landscape  in  your  eyes,  and  I  in  your  heart,  may  make  but 
one  ...  so  that,"  she  added,  "  when  you  return,  after  long  days, 
to  see  once  more  this  lonely  spot,  to  wander  beneath  these 
trees,  on  the  margin  of  these  waves,  to  listen  to  the  breeze  and 
murmuring  winds,  you  may  see  me  once  more,  as  living,  as 
present,  and  as  loving  as  I  am  here  !".... 

She  could  say  no  more,  and  burst  into  tears.  Oh !  how  we 
•wept!  how  long  we  wept1?  The  sound  of  our  stifled  sobs 
mingled  with  the  sobbing  of  the  water  on  the  sand.  Our  tears 
fell  trickling  in  the  water  at  our  feet.  After  a  lapse  of  fifteen 
years,  I  can  not  write  it  without  tears,  even  now. 

O  man  !  fear  not  for  thy  affections,  and  feel  no  dread  lest 
time  should  efface  them.  There  is  neither  to-day  nor  yesterday 
in  the  powerful  echoes  of  memory;  there  is  only  always.  He 
who  no  longer  feels  has  never  felt !  There  are  two  memories  : 
the  memory  of  the  senses,  which  wears  out  with  the  senses,  and 
in  which  perishable  things  decay ;  ard  the  memory  of  the  soul, 


RAPHAEL.  71 


for  which  time  does  not  exist,  and  which  lives  over  at  the  same 
instant  every  moment  of  its  past  and  present  existence ;  it  is  a 
faculty  of  the  soul,  which,  like  the  soul,  enjoys  ubiquity,  univer- 
sality, and  immortality  of  spirit.  Fear  not,  ye  who  love ! 
Time  has  power  over  hours,  none  over  the  soul. 

XL. — I  strove  to  speak,  but  could  not.  My  sobs  spoke,  and 
my  tears  promised.  We  got  up  to  join  the  muleteers,  and 
returned  at  sunset  by  the  long  avenue  of  leafless  poplars,  where 
we  had  passed  before,  when  she  held  my  hand  so  long  in  the 
palanquin.  As  we  went  through  the  straggling  faubourg  of 
cottages,  at  the  entrance  of  the  town,  and  crossed  the  Place  to 
enter  the  steep  street  of  Aix,  sad  faces  were  seen  gi'eeting  us  at 
the  windows  and  at  the  doors ;  as  kind  souls  watch  the  de- 
parture of  two  belated  swallows,  who  are  the  last  to  leave  the 
walls  which  have  sheltered  them.  Poor  women  rose  from  the 
stone  bench  where  they  were  spinning  before  their  houses ; 
children  left  the  goats  and  donkeys  which  they  were  driving 
home  ;  all  came  to  address  a  word,  a  look,  or  even  a  silent  bow 
of  recognition  to  the  young  lady,  and  the  one  they  supposed  to 
be  her  brother.  She  was  so  beautiful,  so  gracious  to  all,  so 
loved,  it  seemed  as  though  the  last  ray  of  the  year  was  retiring 
from  the  valley. 

When  we  had  reached  the  top  of  the  town,  we  got  down 
from  our  mules  and  dismissed  the  children.  As  we  did  not 
wish  to  lose  an  hour  of  this  last  day  that  still  shone  on  the  rose- 
tinted  snows  of  the  Alps,  we  climbed  slowly,  and  alone,  up  a 
narrow  path  which  leads  to  the  garden  terrace  of  a  house  callea 
the  Maison  Chevalier.  From  this  terrace,  which  seems  like  a 
platform  erected  in  the  center  of  a  panorama,  the  eye  embraces 
the  town,  the  lake,  the  passes  of  the  Rhone,  and  all  the  peaks 
of  the  Alpine  landscape.  We  sat  down  on  the  fallen  trunk 
of  a  tree,  and  leaned  on  the  parapet  wall  of  fhe  terrace  ;  we 
remained  mute  and  motionless,  looking  by  turns  at  all  the 
different  spots,  that  for  the  last  six  weeks  had  witnessed  out 
looks  and  steps,  our  twofold  dreams,  and  our  sighs.  When  all 
these  had  one  by  one  faded  away  in  the  dim  shade  of  twilight — 
when  there  was  only  one  corner  of  the  horizon,  to  westward, 
where  a  faint  light  remained,  we  started  up  with  one  accord, 
and  fled  precipitately,  casting  vain  and  sorrowing  looks  behind, 
as  if  some  invisible  hand  had  driven  us  out  of  this  Eden,  and  piti 
lessly  effaced  on  our  steps  all  the  sce-fj  of  our  happiness  and  love 


72  RAPHAEL. 

XLT. — We  returned  home  and  spent  a  sad  evening,  although 
I  was  to  accompany  Julie  as  far  as  Lyons  on  the  box  of  her 
carriage.  When  the  hand  of  her  little  portable  clock  marked 
midnight,  I  retired,  to  let  her  take  some  rest  before  morning. 
She  accompanied  me  to  the  door ;  I  opened  it,  and  said  as  I 
kissed  her  hand  in  the  passage;  "Good-by  till  the  morrow!" 
She  did  not  answer,  but  I  heard  her  murmur,  with  a  sob,  behind 
the  closing  door  :  "  There  is  no  morrow  for  us !" 

There  were  a  few  days  more,  but  they  were  short  and  bitter, 
as  the  last  dregs  of  a  drained  cup.  We  started  for  Chambery 
very  early  in  the  morning,  not  to  show  our  pale  cheeks  and 
swollen  eyelids  in  broad  daylight,  and  passed  the  day  there,  in 
a  small  inn  of  the  Italian  faubourg.  The  wooden  galleries  of 
the  inn  overlooked  a  garden,  with  a  stream  running  through  it, 
and  for  a  few  hours  we  cheated  ourselves  into  the  belief  that 
we  were  once  more  in  our  home  at  Aix,  with  its  galleries,  its 
silence,  and  its  solitude. 

XLII. — We  wished  before  we  left  Chambery  and  the  valley 
we  so  much  loved,  to  visit  together  the  humble  dwelling  of  Jean 
Jacques  Rousseau  and  Madame  de  Warens,  at  Les  Charmettes. 
A  landscape  is  but  a  man,  or  a  woman.  What  is  Vaucluse 
without  Petrarch  ? — Sorrento  without  Tasso  ?  What  is  Sicily 
without  Theocritus,  or  the  Paraclet  without  Heloise  ]  What  is 
Annecy  without  Madame  de  Warens  ]  What  is  Chambery 
without  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  1  A  sky  without  rays,  a  voice 
without  echo,  a  landscape  without  life !  Man  does  not  only 
animate  his  fellow-men,  he  animates  all  nature.  He  carries  his 
own  immortality  with  him  into  heaven,  but  bequeaths  another 
to  the  spots  that  he  has  consecrated  by  his  presence ;  it  is  only 
there  we  can  trace  his  course,  and  really  converse  with  his 
memory.  We  took  with  us  the  volume  of  the  Confessions  in 
which  the  poet  of  Les  Charmettes  describes  this  rustic  retreat. 
Rousseau  was  wrecked  there  by  the  first  storms  of  his  fate,  and 
was  rescued  by  a  woman,  young,  lovely,  and  adventurous, 
wrecked  and  lost  like  himself.  This  woman  seems  to  have 
been  a  compound  of  virtues  and  weaknesses,  sensibility  and 
license,  piety  and  independence  of  thought,  formed  expresssly 
by  nature  to  cherish  and  develop  the  strange  youth,  whose 
mind  comprehended  that  of  a  sage,  a  lover,  a  philosopher,  a 
legislator,  and  a  madman.  Another  woman  might  perhaps  have 
produced  another  life.  In  a  man  we  can  always  trace  the 


RAPHAEL.  '3 

woman  whom  he  first  loved.  Happy  would  he  have  been  who 
had  met  Madame  de  Warens  before  her  profanation  ! — She  was 
an  idol  to  be  adored,  but  the  idol  had  been  polluted.  She 
herself  debased  the  worship  that  a  young  and  loving  heart 
tendered  her.  The  amours  of  this  woman  and  Rousseau 
appear  like  a  leaf  torn  from  the  lovtjs  of  Daphnis  and  Chloe, 
and  found  soiled  and  defiled  on  the  bed  of  a  courtesan.  It 
matters  not :  it  was  the  first  love,  or  the  first  delirium,  if  you 
will,  of  the  young  man.  The  birthplace  of  that  love,  the  arbor 
where  Rousseau  made  his  first  avowal,  the  room  where  he 
blushed  at  his  first  emotions,  the  yard  where  he  gloried  in  the 
most  humble  offices  to  serve  his  beloved  protectress,  the  spread- 
ing chestnut  trees  beneath  which  they  sat  together  to  speak  of 
God,  and  intermingled  their  sportive  theology  with  bursts  of 
merriment  and  childish  caresses,  the  landscape,  mysterious  and 
wild  as  they,  which  seems  so  well  adapted  to  them,  have  all, 
for  the  lover,  the  poet,  or  the  philosopher  a  deep  and  hidden 
attraction.  They  yield  to  it  without  knowing  why.  For  poets 
this  was  the  first  page  of  that  life  which  was  a  poem  ;  for 
philosophers  it  was  the  cradle  of  a  revolution  ;  for  lovers  it  is  the 
birthplace  of  first  love. 

XLIII. — We  followed  the  stony  path  at  the  bottom  of  the 
ravine  which  leads  to  Charmettes,  still  talking  of  this  love. 
We  were  alone.  The  goat-herds  even  had  forsaken  the  dried- 
up  pastures  and  the  leafless  hedges.  The  sun  shone  now  and 
-hen  between  the  passing  clouds,  and  its  concentrated  rays 
were  warmer  within  the  sheltered  sides  of  the  ravine.  The 
redbreasts  hopped  about  the  bushes  almost  within  our  reach. 
Every  now  and  then  we  would  sit  on  the  southern  bank  of  the 
road,  to  read  a  page  or  two  of  the  Confessions,  and  identify 
ourselves  with  the  place. 

We  fancied  we  saw  the  young  vagrant,  in  his  tattered  clothes, 
knocking  at  the  gate,  and  delivering,  with  a  blush,  his  letter  of 
recommendation  to  the  fair  recluse,  in  the  lonely  path  that  leads 
from  the  house  to  the  church.  They  were  so  present  to  our 
fancy,  that  it  seemed  as  though  they  were  expecting  us,  and 
that  we  should  see  them  at  the  window,  or  in  the  garden  walks 
of  Les  Charmettes.  We  would  walk  on,  then  stop  again  ;  the 
spot  seemed  to  attract  and  to  repel  us  by  turns,  as  a  place 
where  love  had  been  revealed,  but  where  love  had  been  pro- 
faned also.  It  presented  no  such  perils  to  us.  We  were  des- 

D 


74  RAPHAEL. 

lined  to  carry  away  our  love  from  thence,  as  pure  and  as  divine 
as  we  had  brought  it  there  within  us. 

"  Oh !"  I  inwardly  exclaimed,  "  were  I  a  Rousseau,  what 
might  not  this  oilier  Madame  de  Warens  have  made  me ;  she 
who  is  as  superior  to  her  of  Les  Charmettes  as  I  am  inferior  to 
Rousseau,  nut  in  feeling,  but  in  genius." 

Absorbed  in  these  thoughts,  we  walked  up  a  shelving  green 
sward,  upon  which  a  few  walnut  trees  were  scattered  here  and 
there.  These  trees  had  seen  the  lovers  beneath  their  shade. 
To  the  right,  where  the  pass  narrows,  so  as  to  appear  to  form 
a  barrier  to  the  traveler,  stands  the  house  of  Madame  de 
Warens,  on  a  terrace  of  rough  and  ill-cemented  stones.  It  is  a 
little  square  building  of  gray  stone,  with  two  windows  and  a 
door  opening  on  the  terrace,  and  the  same  on  the  garden  side ; 
there  are  three  low  rooms  on  the  upper  story,  and  a  large  room 
on  the  ground-floor,  with  no  other  furniture  than  a  portrait  of 
Madame  de  Warens  in  her  youth.  Her  lovely  face  beams  forth 
from  the  dust-covered  and  dingy  canvas  with  beauty,  sportive- 
ness,  and  pensive  grace.  Poor  charming  -woman !  Had  she 
not  met  that  wandering  boy  on  the  highway — had  she  not 
opened  to  him  her  house  and  heart,  his  sensitive  and  suffering 
genius  might  have  been  extinguished  in  the  mire.  The  meet- 
ing seemed  like  the  effect  of  chance ;  but  it  was  predestination 
meeting  the  great  man  under  the  form  of  his  first  love.  That 
woman  saved  him  ;  she  cultivated  him  ;  she  excited  him  in 
solitude,  in  liberty,  and  in  love,  as  the  houris  of  the  East  through 
pleasure  raise  up  martyrs  in  their  young  votaries.  She  gave  him 
his  dreamy  imagination,  his  almost  feminine  soul,  his  tender  ac- 
cents, his  passion  for  nature.  Her  pensive  fancy  imparted  to 
him  enthusiasm ;  the  enthusiasm  of  women,  of  young  men,  of 
lovers,  of  all  the  poor,  the  oppressed,  the  unhappy  of  his  day  ! 
She  gave  him  the  world,  and  he  proved  ungrateful !  .  .  .  .  She 
gave  him  fame,  and  he  bequeathed  opprobrium  !  .  .  .  .  But  pos- 
terity should  be  grateful  to  them,  and  forgive  a  weakness  that 
gave  us  the  prophet  of  liberty.  When  Rousseau  wrote  those 
odious  pages  against  his  benefactress,  he  was  no  longer  Rous- 
seau, he  was  a  poor  madman.  Who  knows  if  his  morbid  and 
disordered  imagination,  which  made  him  at  that  time  see  an 
insult  in  every  benefit,  and  hatred  in  all  friendship,  did  not  show 
him  likewise  the  courtesan  in  the  loving  woman,  and  wanton- 
ness instead  of  love  1  I  have  always  suspected  it.  I  defy  any 
rational  man  to  recompose,  with  a  semblance  of  probal  ility, 


RAPHAEL.  75 

the  character  Rousseau  gives  to  the  woman  he  loved,  from  the 
contradictory  elements  which  he  describes  in  her.  Those  ele- 
ments exclude  each  other :  if  she  had  soul  enough  to  adore 
Rousseau,  she  did  not  at  the  same  time  love  Claude  Aiiet ;  if 
she  grieved  for  Claude  Anet  and  Rousseau,  she  did  not  love  the 
young  hair-dresser.  If  she  was  pious,  she  did  not  glory  in  her 
weakness,  but  must  have  deplored  it;  if  engaging,  handsome, 
and  frail,  as  Rousseau  depicts  her,  she  could  not  be  reduced  to 
look  for  admirers  among  the  vagrants  of  the  streets,  or  on  the 
highways.  If  she  affected  devotion  with  such  a  life,  she  was  a 
calculating  hypocrite ;  and  if  a  hypocrite,  she  was  not  the  frank, 
open,  and  unreserved  creature  of  the  Confessions.  The  like- 
ness can  not  be  true ;  it  is  a  fancy  head  and  a  fancy  heart. 
There  is  some  hidden  mystery  here,  which  must  be  attributed 
rather  to  the  misguided  hand  of  the  artist,  than  to  the  nature  of 
the  woman  whom  he  wished  to  represent.  We  must  neither 
accuse  the  painter,  whose  discernment  was  at  that  time  im- 
paired, nor  believe  in  the  portrait,  which  has  disfigured  the 
sketch  he  at  first  made,  of  an  adorable  creature. 

For  my  part,  I  never  could  believe  that  Madame  de  VVarens 
would  have  recognized  herself  in  the  questionable  pages  of 
Rousseau's  old  age.  In  my  fancy,  1  have  always  restored  her 
f.o  what  she  was,  or  what  she  appeared  at  Annecy  to  the  young 
poet — lovely,  feeling,  tender,  frail,  though  really  pious,  prodigal 
of  kindness,  thirsting  after  love,  and  desirous  of  blending  the 
tender  names  of  mother  and  of  mistress  in  her  affection  for  the 
youth  that  Providence  had  confided  to  her,  and  whom  her  love 
had  adopted.  This  is  the  true  portrait,  such  as  the  old  men  of 
Chambery  and  Annecy  have  told  me  that  their  fathers  had 
transmitted  to  them.  Rousseau's  mind  itself  bears  witness 
against  his  own  accusations.  Whence  would  he  have  derived 
his  sublime  and  tender  piety,  his  feminine  melancholy,  his  ex- 
quisite and  delicate  touches  of  feeling,  if  a  woman  had  not 
bestowed  them  with  her  heart.  No !  the  woman  who  called 
into  existence  such  a  man,  was  not  a  cynical  courtesan,  but 
rather  a  fallen  Heloise ;  an  Heloise  fallen  by  love,  and  not  by 
vice  or  depravity.  I  appeal  from  Rousseau,  the  morose  old 
man,  calumniating  human  nature,  to  Rousseau,  the  young  and 
ardent  lover ;  and  when  I  go,  as  I  often  do,  to  muse  at  Les 
Charmettes,  I  seek  a  Madame  de  Warens  far  more  touching 
and  attractive  in  my  imagination  than  in  his. 


76  RAPHAEL. 

XLIV. — A  poor  woman  made  us  some  fire  in  Madame  d« 
Warens'  room  ;  accustomed  to  the  visits  of  strangers,  and  to 
their  long  conversations  on  the  scene  of  the  early  days  of  a 
celebrated  man,  she  attended  to  her  usual  work  in  the  kitchen 
and  in  the  yard,  and  left  us  at  liberty  to  warm  ourselves,  or  to 
saunter  backward  and  forward  from  the  house  to  the  garden. 
This  little  sunny  garden,  surrounded  by  a  wall  which  separated 
it  from  the  vineyards,  and  overrun  with  nettles,  mallows,  and 
weeds  of  all  kinds,  resembled  one  of  those  village  churchyards 
where  the  peasants  assemble  to  bask  in  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
leaning  against  the  church  walls,  with  their  feet  on  the  graves 
of  the  dead.  The  walks  so  neatly  graveled  once,  were  now 
covered  with  damp  earth  and  yellow  moss,  and  showed  the 
neglect  that  had  followed  on  absence.  How  we  would  have 
wished  to  discover  the  print  of  the  footsteps  of  Madame  de 
Warens,  when  she  used  to  go,  basket  in  hand,  from  tree  tc 
tree,  from  vine  to  vine,  gathering  the  pears  of  the  orchard  or 
ttie  grapes  of  the  vineyard,  and  indulging  in  merry  froHc  with 
the  pupil  or  the  confessor.  But  there  is  no  trace  of  them  in 
their  house,  save  their  memory  !  That  is  enough  :  their  name, 
their  remembrance,  their  image,  the  sun  they  saw,  the  air  they 
breathed,  which  seems  still  beaming  with  their  youth,  warm 
with  their  breath,  arid  filled  with  their  voices,  give  one  back 
the  light,  the  dreams,  the  sounds,  which  shed  enchantment 
round  their  spring  of  life. 

I  saw  by  Julie's  pensive  countenance,  and  her  silent  thought- 
fulness,  that  the  sight  of  this  sanctuary  of  love  and  genius  im- 
pressed her  as  deeply  as  myself.  At  times  she  shunned  me, 
and  remained  wrapped  in  her  own  thoughts,  as  if  she  feared  to 
communicate  them ;  she  would  go  into  the  house  to  warm  her- 
self when  I  was  in  the  garden,  and  return  to  sit  on  the  stone 
bench  in  the  arbor  when  I  joined  her  at  the  fire-side.  At  length 
I  went  to  her  in  the  arbor ;  the  last  yellow  leaves  hung  loosely 
from  the  vine,  and  allowed  the  sun  to  penetrate  and  envelop 
her  with  its  rays. 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  to  think  of  without  me  ]"  I  said,  in  a 
tone  of  tender  reproach.  "  Do  I  ever  think  alone  ]"  "  Alas  !" 
she  answered,  "  you  will  not  believe  me,  but  I  was  thinking 
that  I  could  wish  to  be  Madame  de  Warens  for  you,  during 
one  single  season,  even  though  I  were  to  be  forsaken  for  the 
remainder  of  my  days,  and  though  shame  were  to  attach  to  my 
memory  like  hers ;  even  though  you  proved  as  ungrateful  and 


RAPHAEL.  "77 

calumniating  as  Rousseau !  .  .  .  .  How  happy  she  was,"  she 
continued,  gazing  up  at  the  sky,  as  though  she  sought  the 
image  of  the  strange  creature  she  envied — "  How  happy  she 
was  !  she  sacrificed  herself  for  him  she  loved." 

"  What  ingratitude  and  what  profanation  of  yourself  and  of 
our  happiness  !"  I  answered,  walking  slowly  back  with  her  to- 
ward the  house,  upon  the  dry  leaves,  that  rustled  beneath  our  feet. 

"  Have  I  then  ever,  by  a  single  word  or  look,  or  by  a  single 
sigh,  shown  that  aught  was  wanting  to  my  bitter  but,  complete 
felicity  ?  Can  not  you,  in  your  angelic  fancy,  imagine  for 
another  Rousseau  (if  nature  could  have  produced  two)  another 
Madame  de  Warensl  A  Madame  de  Warens,  young  arid  pure, 
angel,  lover,  sister,  all  at  once,  bestowing  her  whole  soul,  her 
immaculate  and  immortal  soul,  instead  of  her  perishable  charms  1 
bestowing  it  on  a  brother  who  was  lost  and  is  found — who  was 
young,  misled,  and  wandering,  too,  in  this  world,  like  the  son 
of  the  watchmaker;  throwing  open  to  that  brother,  instead  of 
her  house  and  garden,  the  bright  treasures  of  her  affection 
purifying  him  in  her  rays,  cleansing  him  from  his  first  pollutions 
by  her  tears,  deterring  him  forever  from  any  grosser  pleasure 
than  that  of  inward  possession  and  contemplation,  teaching  him 
to  value  his  very  privations  far  above  the  sensual  enjoyment  that 
man  shares  with  brutes ;  pointing  out  to  him  his  course  through 
life,  inciting  him  to  glory  and  to  virtue,  and  rewarding  his 
sacrifices  by  this  one  thought :  That  fame,  virtue,  and  sacrifices 
are  all  taken  into  account  in  the  heart  of  his  beloved — all  accu- 
mulate in  her  love,  are  multiplied  by  her  gratitude,  and  are 
added  to  that  treasure  of  tenderness  which  is  ever  increasing 
here  below,  to  be  expended  only  in  Heaven." 

XLV. — Nevertheless,  as  I  spoke  thus,  I  fell  quite  overcome, 
with  my  face  hidden  in  my  hands,  on  a  chair  that  was  near  the 
wall,  far  from  hers.  I  remained  there  without  speaking  a  word. 
"  Let  us  begone,"  she  said;  "  I  am  cold  ;  this  place  is  not  good 
for  us !"  We  gave  some  money  to  the  good  woman,  and  we 
returned  slowly  to  Charnbery. 

The  next  day,  Julie  was  to  start  for  Lyons.  In  the  evening, 
Louis  came  to  see  us  at  the  inn,  and  I  induced  him  to  go  with 
me  to  spend  a  few  weeks  at  my  father's  house,  which  was  sit- 
uated on  the  road  from  Paris  to  Lyons.  We  then  went  out 
together  to  inquire  at  the  coachmaker's  in  Ch&mbery  for  a  light 
caleche,  in  which  we  could  follow  Julie's  carriage  as  far  as  the 


/8  RAPHAEL. 


town  where  we  were  to  separate.    We  soon  found  what  we 
sought. 

Before  daylight  we  were  off,  traveling  in  silence  through  the 
winding  defiles  of  Savoy,  which  at  Pont-de-Beauvoisin  open  into 
the  monotonous  and  stony  plains  of  Dauphiny.  At  every  stage 
we  got  down,  and  went  to  the  first  carnage  to  inquire  ahout 
the  poor  invalid.  Alas!  every  turn  of  the  carriage-wheel  which 
took  her  further  from  that  spring  of  life  which  she  had  found  in 
Savoy,  seemed  to  rob  her  of  her  bloom,  and  to  bring  back  the 
look  of  languor  and  the  slow  fever,  which  had  struck  me  as 
being  the  beauty  of  death,  the  first  time  I  saw  her.  As  the 
time  for  bur  leaving  her  drew  near,  she  was  visibly  oppressed 
with  grief.  Between  La-Tour-du-Pin  and  Lyons,  we  got  into 
her  carriage  for  a  few  leagues,  to  try  and  cheer  her.  I  begged 
her  to  sing  the  ballad  of  Auld  Robin  Gray  for  my  friend ;  she 
did  so,  to  please  me,  but  at  the  second  verse,  which  relates  the 
parting  of  the  two  lovers,  the  analogy  between  our  situation, 
and  the  hopeless  sadness  of  the  ballad,  as  she  sung  it,  struck 
her  so  forcibly,  that  she  burst  into  tears.  She  took  up  a  black 
shawl  that  she  wore  that  day,  and  threw  it  as  a  vail  over  her 
face,  and  I  saw  her  sobbing  a  long  while  beneath  the  shawl. 
At  the  last  stage  she  fell  into  a  fainting  fit,  which  lasted  till  we 
reached  the  hotel  where  we  were  to  get  down,  at  Lyons.  With 
the  assistance  of  her  maid,  we  carried  her  up-stairs,  and  laid  her 
on  her  bed.  In  the  evening  she  rallied,  and  the  next  day  we 
pursued  our  journey  toward  Macon. 

XLVI. — It  was  there  we  were  to  separate  definitively.  We 
gave  our  directions  to  her  courier,  and  hurried  over  the  adieus 
for  fear  of  increasing  her  illness,  by  prolonging  such  painful 
emotions,  as  one  who,  with  an  unflinching  hand,  hastily  bares 
a  wound  to  spare  the  sufferer.  My  friend  left  for  my  father's 
country  house,  whither  I  was  to  follow  the  next  day. 

Louis  was  no  sooner  gone,  than  I  felt  quite  unable  to  keep 
my  word.  I  could  not  rest  under  the  idea  of  leaving  Julie  in 
tears,  to  prosecute  her  long  winter  journey,  with  only  the  care 
of  servants,  and  the  thought  that  she  might  fall  ill  in  some  lonely 
inn,  and  die  while  calling  for  me  in  vain,  was  unbearable.  I 
had  no  money  left ;  a  good  old  man  who  had  once  lent  me 
twenty-five  louis  had  died  during  my  absence.  I  took  my  watch, 
a  gold  chain  that  one  of  my  mother's  friends  had  given  me  three 
years  before,  some  Irinkets,  my  epaulets,  my  sword,  and  the 


RAPHAEL.  79 

gold  lace  off  my  uniform,  wrapped  them  all  in  my  cloak,  and 
went  to  my  mother's  jeweler,  who  gave  me  thirty-five  louis  for 
the  whole.  From  thence  I  hurried  to  the  inn  where  Julie  slept, 
and  called  her  courier:  I  told  him  I  should  follow  the  carriage 
at  a  distance,  to  the  gates  of  Paris,  but  that  I  did  not  wish  his 
mistress  to  know  it,  for  fear  she  should  object  to  it,  out  of  con- 
sideration to  me.  I  inquired  the  names  of  the  towns  and  the 
hotels  where  he  intended  to  get  down  on  the  road,  in  ordet 
that  I  might  stop  in  the  same  towns,  but  get  down  at  other 
hotels.  I  rewarded  him  by  anticipation  and  liberally  for  his 
secrecy,  then  ran  to  the  post-house,  ordered  horses,  and  set  off 
half  an  hour  after  the  departure  of  the  carriage  I  wished  to 
follow. 

XLVII. — No  unforeseen  obstacles  counteracted  the  mysteri- 
ous watchfulness  which  I  exercised,  though  still  invisible.  The 
courier  gave  notice  secretly  to  the  postillions  of  the  approach 
of  another  caleche ;  and  as  he  ordered  horses  for  me,  I  always 
found  the  relays  ready.  I  accelerated  or  slackened  my  speed 
according  as  1  wished  to  keep  at  a  distance,  or  to  come  nearer 
to  the  first  carriage,  and  always  questioned  the  postillions  re- 
specting the  health  of  the  young  lady  they  had  just  driven. 
From  the  top  of  the  hills  I  could  see,  far  down  in  the  plain, 
the  carriage  speeding  through  fog  or  sunshine,  and  bearing 
away  my  happiness.  My  thoughts  outstripped  the  horses;  in 
fancy  1  entered  the  carriage,  and  saw  Julie  asleep,  dreaming, 
perhaps,  of  me,  or  awake,  and  weeping  over  our  bright  days 
forever  flown.  When  I  closed  my  eyes,  to  see  her  better,  I 
fancied  I  heard  her  breathe.  I  can  scarcely  now  comprehend 
that  I  had  strength  of  mind  and  self-denial  enough  to  resist, 
during  a  journey  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  leagues,  the  im- 
pulse that  unceasingly  impelled  me  toward  that  carriage  which 
I  followed  without  attempting  to  overtake ;  my  whole  soul  went 
with  it,  and  my  body  alone,  insensible  to  the  snow  and  sleet, 
followed,  and  was  jolted,  tossed,  and  swung  about,  without  the 
least  consciousness  of  its  own  sufferings.  But  the  fear  of  caus- 
ing Julie  an  unexpected  shock,  which  might  prove  fatal,  or  of 
renewing  a  heart-rending  scene  of  separation,  repelled  me;  and 
the  idea  of  watching  over  her  safety,  like  a  loving  Providence, 
and  with  angel-like  disinterestedness,  nailed  me  to  my  resolution. 

The  first  time,  she  got  down  a-t  the  great  hotel  of  Autun,  and 
I  in  a  little  inn  of  the  faubourg  close  by.  Before  daylight,  th« 


80  R  A  P  ii  A  i:  i.. 

two  carnages,  within  sight  of  each  other,  were  once  more  run 
ning  along  the  white  and  winding  road,  through  the  gray  plains 
and  druidical  oak  forests  of  Upper  Burgundy.  We  stopped  in 
the  little  town  of  Avallon ;  she  in  the  center,  and  I  at  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  town.  The  next  day  we  were  rolling  on  toward 
Sens.  The  snow  which  the  north  wind  had  accumulated  on 
the  barren  heights  of  Lucy-le-Bois  and  of  Vermanton,  fell  in 
half-melted  flakes  on  the  road,  and  smothered  the  sound  of  the 
wheels.  One  could  scarcely  distinguish  the.  misty  horizon  at 
the  distance  of  a  few  feet,  through  the  whirling  cloud  of  snow 
that  the  wind  drifted  from  the  adjoining  fields.  It  was  no  longer 
possible,  by  sight  or  sound,  to  judge  of  the  distance  between 
the  two  carnages.  Suddenly,  I  perceived  in  front,  almost 
touching  my  horses'  heads,  Julie's  cariiage,  which  was  drawn 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  The  courier  had  alighted,  and 
was  standing  on  the  steps,  calling  out  for  help,  and  making  signs 
of  distress.  I  leaped  out,  and  flew  to  the  carriage,  by  a  first 
impulse  sti'onger  than  prudence  :  I  jumped  inside,  and  saw  the 
maid  striving  to  recall  her  mistress  from  a  fainting  fit,  brought 
on  by  the  weather  and  fatigue,  and  perhaps  by  the  storms  of 
the  heart.  The  courier  ran  to  fetch  warm  water  from  the  distant 
cottages,  and  the  maid  rubbed  her  mistress's  cold  feet  in  her 
hands,  or  pressed  them  to  her  bosom  to  warm  them.  Oh  !  what 
I  felt  as  I  held  that  adored  form  in  my  arms  during  one  long 
hour  of  insensibility,  desiring  that  she  should  hear,  and  dreading 
lest  she  should  recognize  my  voice  which  recalled  her  to  life, 
none  can  conceive  or  describe,  unless  they,  too,  have  felt  life 
and  death  thus  struggling  in  their  hearts. 

At  last,  our  tender  care,  the  application  of  the  hot  water 
bottles  which  had  been  brought  by  the  courier,  and  the  warmth 
of  my  hands  on  hers,  recalled  heat  to  the  extremities.  The 
color  which  began  to  appear  in  her  cheeks,  and  a  long  and 
feeble  sigh  which  escaped  her  lips,  indicated  her  return  to  life. 
I  jumped  out  on  the  road,  so  that  she  might  not  see  me  when 
she  opened  her  eyes,  and  remained  there,  behind  the  carriage 
my  face  muffled  up  in  my  cloak.  I  desired  the  servants  to 
make  no  mention  of  my  sudden  appearance.  They  soon  made 
a  sign  to  me  that  she  was  recoveiing  consciousness,  and  I  heard 
her  voice  stammer  forth  these  words,  as  if  in  a  dream  :  "  Oh  ! 
if  Raphael  were  here!  I  thought  it  was  Raphael !"  I  hastily 
returned  to  my  own  carriage ;  the  horses  started  afresh,  and  a 
wide  distance  soon  lay  between  us.  In  the  evening,  I  went  to 


RAPHAEL.  81 

inquire  after  her  at  the  inn  where  she  had  alighted,  at  Sens 
I  was  told  that  she  was  quite  well,  and  was  sleeping  soundly. 

I  followed  in  her  track  as  far  as  Fossard,  a  stage  near  the 
little  town  of  Montereau ;  there  the  road  from  Sens  to  Paris 
branches  off  in  two  directions  ;  one  branch  passing  through  Fon- 
tainebleau,  the  other  through  Melun.  This  latter  being  shorter, 
by  several  leagues,  I  followed  it  in  order  to  precede  Julie  by  a 
few  hours  in  Paris,  and  see  her  get  down  at  her  own  door.  I 
paid  the  postillions  double,  and  arrived  long  before  dark  at  the 
hotel  where  I  was  accustomed  to  put  up  in  Paris.  At  night- 
fall I  stationed  myself  on  the  quay  opposite  to  Julie's  house, 
that  she  had  so  often  described  to  me  ;  I  knew  it  as  if  I  had  lived 
there  all  my  life.  I  observed  through  the  windows  that  hurry- 
ing to  and  fro  of  shadows  within,  which  one  sees  in  a  house 
where  some  new  guest  is  expected.  I  could  see  on  the  ceiling 
of  her  room,  the  reflection  of  the  fire  which  had  been  lighted  on 
the  hearth.  An  old  man's  face  showed  itself  several  times  at 
the  window,  and  appeared  to  watch  and  listen  to  the  noises  of 
the  quay.  It  was  her  husband,  her  second  father.  The  con- 
cierge held  the  door  open,  and  stepped  out,  from  time  to  time,  to 
watch  and  listen  likewise.  Now  and  then,  a  pale  and  rapid 
gleam  of  light  from  the  street  lamp  .which  swung  backward  and 
forward  with  the  gusty  wind  of  December,  shot  athwart  the 
pavement  before  the  house,  and  then  left  it  in  darkness.  At  last 
a  traveling  carriage  swept  round  the  corner  of  one  of  the  streets 
which  lead  to  the  quay,  and  stopped  before  the  house.  I  darted 
forward  and  half  concealed  myself  in  the  shade  of  a  column  at 
the  next  door  to  that  at  which  the  carriage  stopped.  I  saw  the 
servants  rush  to  the  door.  I  saw  Julie  alight,  and  saw  the  old 
man  embrace  her,  as  a  father  embraces  his  child  after  a  long 
absence ;  he  then  walked  heavily  up  stairs,  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  the  concierge.  The  carriage  was  unpacked,  the  postillion 
drove  it  I'ound  to  another  street  to  put  it  up,  the  door  was 
closed.  I  returned  to  my  post  near  the  parapet  on  the  river  side. 

XLVIII. — I  stood  a  long  while  contemplating  from  thence 
the  lighted  windows  of  Julie's  house,  and  sought  to  discovei 
what  was  going  on  inside.  I  saw  the  usual  stir  of  an  arrival, 
busy  people  carrying  trunks,  unpacking  parcels,  and  setting  all 
things  in  order;  when  this  bustle  had  a  little  subsided,  when  the 
lights  no  longer  ran  backward  and  forward  from  room  to  room, 
and  that  the  old  man's  room  alone  was  lighted  by  the  pale  rays 

D* 


82  RAPHAEL. 

of  a  night  lamp,  I  could  distinguish,  through  the  closed  windows 
of  the  entresol  beneath,  the  motionless  shadow  of  Julie's  tall  and 
drooping  form  on  the  white  curtains.  She  remained  some  time 
in  the  same  attitude ;  then  I  saw  her  open  the  window  spite  of 
the  cold,  look  toward  the  Seine  in  my  direction,  as  if  her  eye 
had  rested  upon  me  from  some  preternatural  revelation  of  love, 
then  turn  toward  the  north,  and  gaze  at  a  star  that  we  used  to 
contemplate  together,  and  which  we  had  both  agreed  to  look  at 
in  absence,  as  a  meeting-place  for  our  souls  in  the  inaccessible 
solitude  of  the  firmament.  I  felt  that  look  fall  on  my  heart  like 
living  coals  of  fire.  I  knew  that  our  hearts  were  united  in  one 
thought,  and  my  resolution  vanished  !  I  darted  forward  to  rush 
across  the  quay,  to  go  beneath  her  windows,  and  say  one  word 
that  might  make  her  recognize  her  brother  at  her  feet.  At  the 
same  instant  she  closed  her  window.  The  rolling  of  carriages 
covered  the  sound  of  my  voice ;  the  light  was  extinguished  at 
the  entresol,  and  I  remained  motionless  on  the  quay.  The  clock 
of  a  neighboring  edifice  struck  slowly  twelve;  I  approached  the 
door,  and  kissed  it  convulsively  without  daring  to  knock.  1 
knelt  on  the  threshold,  and  prayed  to  the  stones  to  preserve  to 
me  the  supreme  treasure  which  I  had  brought  back  to  confide 
to  these  walls,  and  then  slowly  withdrew. 

XLIX. — I  left  Paris  the  next  day,  without  having  seen  a 
single  one  of  the  friends  I  had  there.  I  inwardly  rejoiced  at 
not  having  bestowed  one  look,  one  word,  or  a  single  slop  on  any 
one  but  her.  The  rest  of  the  world  no  longer  existed  for  me. 
Before  I  left,  however,  I  put  into  the  post  a  note,  dated  Paris, 
and  addressed  to  Julie,  which  she  would  receive  on  waking. 
The  note  only  contained  these  words :  "  I  have  followed  you, 
I  have  watched  over  you  though  invisible.  I  would  not  leave 
you  without  knowing  that  you  were  under  the  care  of  th'ose  who 
love  you.  Last  night,  at  midnight,  when  you  opened  the  win- 
dow, and  looked  at  the  star,  and  sighed,  I  was  there !  You  might 
have  heard  my  voice.  When  you  read  these  lines  I  shall  bo  far 
away  !" 

L. — I  traveled  day  and  night  in  such  complete  dizziness  of 
thought,  that  I  felt  neither  cold,  hunger,  nor  distance,  and  ar- 
rived at  M  *  *  *  as  if  awaking  from  a  dream,  and  scarcely  re- 
membering that  I  had  been  to  Paris.  I  found  my  friend  Louis 
awaiting  me  at  my  father's  house  in  the  country.  His  presence 


RAPHAEL.  83 

was  soothing  to  me  ;  1  could  at  least  speak  to  him  of  her  whom 
he  admired  as  much  as  I  did.  We  slept  in  the  same  room,  and 
part  of  our  nights  were  spent  in  talking  of  the  heavenly  vision, 
by  which  he  had  been  as  dazzled  as  myself.  He  considered 
her  as  one  of  those  delusions  of  fancy,  one  of  those  women  above 
mortal  height,  like  Tasso's  Eleanora,  Dante's  Beatrix,  Petrarch's 
Laura,  or  Vittoria  Colonna,  the  loving,  the  poet,  and  the  heroine 
at  once ;  forms  that  flit  across  the  earth,  scarcely  touching  it, 
and  without  tarrying,  only  to  fascinate  the  eyes  of  some  men, 
the  privileged  few  of  love,  to  lead  on  their  souls  to  immortal 
aspirations,  and  to  be  the  sursum  corda  of  superior  imagina- 
tions. As  to  Louis,  he  dared  not  raise  his  love  as  high  as  his 
enthusiasm.  His  sensitive  and  tender  heart,  which  had  been 
early  wounded,  was  at  that  time  filled  with  the  image  of  a  poor 
and  pious  orphan,  one  of  his  own  family.  His  happiness  would 
have  been  to  have  married  her,  and  to  live  in  obscurity  and  peace 
in  a  cottage  among  the  hills  of  Chambery.  Want  of  fortune  re- 
stricted the  two  poor  lovers  to  a  hopeless  and  tender  friendship, 
from  the  fear  of  lowering  the  name  of  their  family  in  poverty,  or 
of  bequeathing  indigence  to  children.  The  young  girl  died 
some  years  after  of  solitude  and  hopelessness.  I  have  never 
seen  a  sweeter  face  droop  and  die  for  the  want  of  a  few  of  for- 
tune's rays.  Her  countenance,  where  might  be  traced  the  re- 
mains of  blooming  youth,  equally  ready  to  revive  or  to  fade  for- 
ever, bore  in  the  highest  degree  the  sublime  and  touching  im- 
press of  that  virtue  of  the  unhappy,  called  resignation.  She  be- 
came blind  in  consequence  of  the  secret  tears  she  shed  during 
her  long  years  of  expectation  and  uncertainty.  I  met  her  once, 
on  my  return  from  one  of  my  journeys  to  Italy.  She  was  led 
by  the  hand  through  the  streets  of  Chambery,  by  one  of  her  lit- 
tle sisters.  When  she  heard  my  voice  she  turned  pale,  and  felt 
for  some  support  with  her  poor  hesitating  hand  :  "  Excuse  me," 
she  said  ;  "  but  when  I  used  formerly  to  hear  that  voice,  I  al- 
ways heard  it  with  another."  Poor  girl !  she  now  listens  to  her 
lover's  voice  in  heaven  ! 

LI. — How  long  were  the  two  months  that  I  had  to  pass  \way 
from  Julie  in  my  father's  house,  before  the  time  came  that  I 
could  join  her  in  Paris  !  During  the  last  three  or  four  months 
I  had  exhausted  the  allowance  I  received  from  my  father,  the 
secret  resources  of  my  mother's  indulgence,  and  the  purse  of  my 
friends,  to  pay  the  debts  that  dissipation,  play,  and  my  travels 


84  RAPHAEL. 


had  made  me  contract.  I  had  no  means  of  obtaining  the  small 
sum  I  required  to  go  to  Paris,  and  to  live  there  even  in  seclu- 
sion and  penury,  and  was  obliged  to  wait  till  the  month  of  Jan- 
uary, when  my  quarter's  allowance  from  my  father  became  due. 
At  that  time  of  the  year,  too,  I  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving 
some  little  presents  from  a  rich  but  severe  old  uncle,  and  from 
some  good  and  prudent  old  aunts.  By  means  of  all  these  re- 
sources, I  hoped  to  collect  a  sum  of  six  or  eight  hundred  francs, 
which  would  be  sufficient  to  keep  me  in  Paris  for  a  few  months. 
Piivations  would  be  no  trial  to  my  vanity,  for  my  life  consisted 
only  in  my  love.  All  the  riches  of  this  world  could,  in  my  eyes, 
only  have  served  to  purchase  for  me  the  portion  of  the  day  that 
T  was  to  pass  with  her. 

The  weary  days  of  expectation  were  filled  with  thoughts  of 
her.  We  devoted  to  each  other  every  hour  of  our  time.  In  the 
morning,  on  waking,  she  retired  to  her  room  to  write  to  me,  and 
at  the  same  instant  I,  too,  was  writing  to  hei  ;  our  pages  and 
our  thoughts  crossed  on  the  road  by  every  post,  questioning,  an- 
swering, and  mingling  without  a  day's  interruption.  There  were 
thus  in  reality  for  us  only  a  few  hours'  absence ;  in  the  evening 
and  at  night.  But  even  these  I  consecrated  to  her  ;  I  was  sur- 
rounded with  her  letters,  they  lay  open  upon  my  table,  my  bed 
was  strewed  with  them,  I  learned  them  by  heart.  I  often  re- 
peated to  myself  the  most  affecting  and  impassioned  passages, 
adding  in  fancy  her  voice,  her  gesture,  her  tone,  her  look;  I 
would  answer  her,  and  thus  succeed  in  producing  such  a  com- 
plete delusion  of  her  real  presence,  that  I  felt  impatient  and  an- 
noyed when  I  was  summoned  to  meals,  or  interrupted  by  vis- 
itors ;  at  these  times  it  seemed  as  though  she  were  torn  from  me, 
or  driven  away  from  my  room.  In  my  long  rambles  on  the 
mountains,  or  in  those  misty  plains  without  an  horizon  which 
border  the  Saone,  I  always  took  her  last  letter  with  me,  and 
would  sit  on  the  rocks,  or  on  the  edge  of  the  water,  amid  the 
ice  and  snow,  to  read  it  over  and  over  again.  Each  time  I  fan- 
cied I  discovered  some  word  or  expression  that  had  escaped  my 
notice  before.  I  remember  that  I  always  instinctively  directed 
my  course  toward  the  north,  as  if  each  step  I  took  in  the  di- 
rection of  Paris  brought  rne  nearer  to  her,  and  diminished  the 
cruel  distance  that  separated  us.  Sometimes  I  went  very  far  on 
the  Paris  road  under  this  impression,  and  when  it  was  time  tr 
return  1  had  always  a  severe  struggle  with  myself.  I  felt  sor 
rowful,  and  would  often  look  back  toward  that  point  of  tht 


RAPHAEL.  85 

horizon  where  she  dwelt,  and  walk  slowly  and  heavily  home. 
Oh !  how  I  envied  the  snow-laden  wings  of  the  crows  that  flew 
northward  through  the  mist !  What  a  pang  I  felt  as  I  saw  the 
carriages  rolling  toward  Paris  !  How  many  of  my  useless  daya 
of  youth  would  I  not  have  given  to  be  in  the  place  of  one  of 
those  listless  old  men,  who  glanced  unconcernedly  through  their 
carriage  windows  at  the  solitary  youth  by  the  wayside,  whose 
steps  traveled  in  the  contrary  direction  to  his  heart.  Oh  !  how 
interminably  long  did  the  short  days  of  December  and  January 
appear!  There  was  one  bright  hour  for  me,  among  all  my 
hours ;  it  was  when  I  heard  from  my  room  the  step,  the  voice, 
and  the  rattle  of  the  postman,  who  was  distributing  the  letters 
in  the  neighborhood.  As  soon  as  I  heard  him,  I  opened  my 
window ;  I  saw  him  coming  np  the  street,  with  his  hands  full 
of  letters,  which  he  distributed  to  all  the  maid-servants,  and 
waited  at  each  door  till  he  received  the  postage.  How  I  cursed 
the  slowness  of  the  good  women,  who  seemed  never  to  have 
done  reckoning  the  change  into  his  hand!  Before  the  postman 
rung  at  my  father's  door,  I  had  already  flown  down  stairs,  crossed 
the  vestibule,  and  stood  panting  at  the  door.  While  the  old  man 
fumbled  among  his  letters,  I  strove  to  discover  the  envelop  of 
fine  post  paper,  and  the  pretty  English  hand-writing  that  distin 
guished  my  treasure  among  all  the  coarse  papers  and  clumsy 
superscriptions  of  commercial  or  vulgar  letters.  I  seized  it  with 
a  trembling  hand ;  my  eyes  swam,  my  heart  beat,  and  my  legs 
refused  their  office.  I  hid  the  letter  in  my  bosom,  for  fear  of 
meeting  some  one  on  the  stairs  ;  and  lest  so  frequent  a  corre- 
spondence should  appear  suspicious  to  my  mother,  I  would  run 
into  my  room,  and  bolt  my  door,  so  as  to  devour  the  pages  at 
leisure,  without  fear  of  interruption.  How  many  tears  and 
kisses  I  impressed  on  the  paper  !  Alas!  when  many  years  aft- 
erward, I  opened  the  volume  of  these  letters,  how  many  words 
effaced  by  my  lips,  and  that  my  tears  or  my  transports  had 
washed  or  torn  out,  were  wanting  to  the  sense  of  many  sen- 
tences ! 

LIT. — After  breakfast,  I  used  to  retire  to  my  upper  room,  to 
read  my  letter  over  again  and  to  answer  it.  These  were  the 
most  feverish  and  delightful  hours  in  the  day.  I  would  take 
four  sheets  of  the  largest  and  thinnest  paper  that  Julie  had  sent 
me  on  purpose  from  Paris,  and  whose  every  page,  commencing 
very  high  up,  ending  very  low  down,  crossed,  and  written  on 


RAPHAEL. 


the  margin,  contained  thousands  of  words.  These  sheets  I  cov- 
ered every  morning,  and  found  them  too  scanty  and  too  soon 
filled  for  the  passionate  and  tumultuous  overflow  of  my  thoughts. 
In  these  letters  there  was  no  beginning,  no  middle,  no  end,  and 
no  grammar;  nothing,  in  short,  of  what  is  generally  understood 
by  the  word  style.  It  was  my  soul  laid  bare  before  another 
soul,  expressing,  or  rather  stammering  forth,  as  well  as  it  could, 
the  conflicting  emotions  that  filled  it,  with  the  help  of  the  inad- 
equate language  of  men.  But  such  language  was  not  made 
to  express  unutterable  things;  its  imperfect  signs  and  empty 
terms,  its  hollow  speeches  and  its  icy  words,  were  melted,  like 
refractory  ore,  by  the  concentrated  fire  of  our  souls,  and  cast 
into  an  indescribable  language,  vague,  ethereal,  flaming  and 
caressing,  like  the  licking  tongues  of  fire,  that  had  no  meaning 
for  others,  but  which  we  alone  understood,  as  it  was  part  of  our- 
selves. These  effusions  of  my  heart  never  ended  and  never 
slackened.  If  the  firmament  had  been  a  single  page,  and  God 
had  bid  me  fill  it  with  my  love,  it  could  not  have  contained  one 
half  of  what  spoke  within  me !  I  never  stopped  till  the  four 
sheets  were  filled ;  yet  I  always  seemed  to  have  said  nothing, 
and  in  truth  I  had  said  nothing ;  for  who  could  ever  tell  what 
is  infinite  1 

LIU. — These  letters,  which  were  without  any  pitifjul  preten- 
sions to  talent  on  my  part,  and  were  a  delight  and  not  a  labor, 
might  have  been  of  marvelous  service  to  me  at  a  later  period, 
if  fate  had  destined  me  to  address  my  fellow  men,  or  to  depict 
the  shades,  the  transports,  or  the  pains  of  passion,  in  works  of 
imagination.  Unknown  to  myself,  I  struggled  desperately,  as 
Jacob  wrestled  with  the  angel,  against  the  poorness,  the  rigid- 
ity, and  the  resistance  of  the  language  I  was  forced  to  use,  as 
1  knew  not  the  language  of  the  skies.  The  efforts  that  I  made 
to  conquer,  bend,  smooth,  extend,  spiritualize,  color,  inflame, 
or  moderate  expressions;  the  wish  to  render  by  words  the 
nicest  shades  of  feeling,  the  most  ethereal  aspirations  of  thought, 
the  most  irresistible  impulses,  and  the  most  chaste  reserve  of 
passion  ;  to  express  looks,  attitudes,  sighs,  silence,  and  even  the 
annihilation  of  the  heart  adoring  the  invisible  object  of  its  love  : 
all  these  efforts,  1  repeat,  which  seemed  to  bend  my  pen  beneath 
my  fingers  like  a  rebellious  instrument,  made  me  sometimes 
find  the  very  word,  expression,  or  cry  that  I  required  to  give  a 
voice  to  the  unutterable.  I  had  used  no  language;  but  I  had 


K  A  P  Jl  A  E  L.  SI 


cried  forth  the  cry  of  my  soul ;  and  I  was  heard.  When  I  rose 
from  my  chair,  after  this  desperate  but  delightful  struggle 
against  words,  pen,  and  paper,  I  remember  that,  spite  of  the 
winter  cold  in  my  room,  the  perspiration  stood  upon  my  fore- 
head, and  I  used  to  open  the  window  to  cool  my  fevered  brow. 

LIV. — My  letters  were  not  only  a  cry  of  love,  they  were 
more  frequently  full  of  invocations,  contemplation,  dreams  of 
the  future,  prospects  of  heaven,  consolations  and  prayers. 

My  love,  which  by  its  nature  was  debarred  from  all  those 
enjoyments  which  relax  the  heart  by  satisfying  the  senses,  had 
opened  afresh  within  me  all  the  springs  of  piety  that  had  been 
dried  up  or  polluted  by  vile,  pleasures.  I  felt  in  my  heart  all 
the  purity  and  elevation  of  divine  love.  I  strove  to  bear  away 
with  me  to  heaven,  on  the  wings  of  my  excited  and  almost  mys- 
tical imagination,  that  other  suffering  and  discouraged  soul !  I 
spoke  of  God,  who  alone  was  perfect  enough  to  have  created 
her  superhuman  perfection  of  beauty,  genius,  and  tenderness ; 
great  enough  to  contain  our  boundless  aspirations  ;  infinite  and 
inexhaustible  enough  to  absorb  and  whelm  in  Himself  the  love 
He  had  lighted  in  us,  so  that  His  flame  in  consuming  us  one 
by  the  other,  might  make  us  both  exhale  ourselves  in  Him  !  I 
comforted  Julie  under  the  sacrifice  that  necessity  obliged  us  to 
make  of  complete  happiness  here  below  ;  1  pointed  out  to  her 
the  merit  of  this  self-denial  of  an  instant  in  the  eyes  of  the  Eter 
nal  Remunerator  of  our  actions.  I  blessed  the  mournful  and 
sublime  purity  of  such  sacrifices,  since  they  would  one  day 
obtain  for  us  a  more  immaterial  and  angelic  union  in  the  eter- 
nal atmosphere  of  pure  spirits.  I  went  so  far  as  to  speak  of 
myself  as  happy  in  my  abnegation,  and  to  sing  the  hymns  of  the 
martyrdom  of  love  to  which  we  were  by  love,  by  greater  love, 
condemned.  I  entreated  Julie  not  to  think  of  my  grief  and  not 
to  give  way  to  sorrow  herself.  I  showed  a  courage  and  a  con- 
tempt for  terrestrial  happiness  that  I  possessed,  alas  !  very  often 
only  in  words.  I  offered  up  to  her,  as  a  holocaust,  all  that  waa 
human  in  me.  I  elevated  myself  to  the  immateiiality  of  angels, 
so  that  she  might  not  suspect  a  suffering  or  a  desire  in  my 
adoration.  I  besought  her  to  seek  in  a  tender  and  sustaining 
religion,  in  the  shelter  of  the  church,  in  the  mysterious  faith  of 
Christ,  the  God  of  tears,  in  kneeling  and  in  invocation,  the  hopes, 
the  consolations,  and  the  delights  that  I  had  tasted  in  my  child 
hood  She  had  renewed  in  me  all  my  early  feelings  of  piety. 


88  R  A  1  II  A  E  L  . 

I  composed  prayers  for  her — calm,  yet  ardent  prayers,  that  as- 
cend like  flames  to  heaven,  but  like  flames  that  no  wind  can 
cause  to  vacillate.  I  begged  her  to  pronounce  these  prayers  at 
certain  hours  of  the  day  and  night,  when  I  would  repeat  them 
also,  so  that  our  two  minds,  united  by  the  same  words,  might 
be  elevated  at  the  same  hour  in  one  invocation !  .  .  .  .  All  these 
were  wet  with  my  tears,  that  left  their  traces  on  my  words,  and 
were  doubtless  more  powerful  arid  more  eloquent  than  they. 
I  used  to  go  and  throw  into  the  post  by  stealth  these  letters,  the 
very  marrow  of  my  bones ;  and  felt  relieved  on  my  return,  as 
if  I  had  thrown  off  a  part  of  the  weight  of  my  own  heart. 

LV. — Spite  of  my  continual  efforts  and  of  the  perpetual 
application  of  my  young  and  ardent  imagination  to  communicate 
to  my  letters  the  fire  that  consumed  me,  to  create  a  language  for 
my  sighs,  to  pour  my  burning  soul  upon  the  paper  and  make  it 
overleap  the  distance  that  divided  us ;  in  this  combat  against 
the  impotence  of  words,  I  was  always  surpassed  by  Julie.  Her 
letters  had  more  expression  in  one  phrase  than  mine  in  their 
eight  pages ;  her  heart  breathed  in  the  words ;  one  saw  her 
looks  in  the  lines;  the  expression  seemed  still  warm  from  hei 
lips.  In  her,  nothing  evaporated  during  that  slow  and  dull 
transition  of  the  feeling  to  the  word,  which  lets  the  lava  of  the 
heart  cool  and  pale  beneath  the  pen  of  man.  Woman  has  no 
style,  that  is  why  all  she  says  is  so  well  said.  Style  is  a  gar- 
ment, but  the  unvailed  soul  stands  forth  upon  the  lips,  or  be- 
neath the  hand  of  woman.  Like  the  Venus  of  speech,  it  rises 
from  the  depths  of  feeling  in  its  naked  beauty;  wakes  of  itself 
to  life,  wonders  at  its  own  existence,  and  is  adored  ere  it  knows* 
that  it  has  spoken. 

LVI. — What  letters  and  what  ardor  !  What  tones  and  ac- 
cents !  What  fire  and  purity  combined,  like  light  and  trans- 
parency in  a  diamond,  like  passion  and  bashfulness  on  the  brow 
of  the  young  girl  who  loves  !  What  powerful  simplicity — 
what  inexhaustible  effusions !  What  sudden  revivals  in  the 
midst  of  languor !  What  sounds  and  songs !  Then  there 
would  be  sadness,  recurring  like  the  unexpected  notes  at  the 
end  of  an  air;  caressing  words,  which  seemed  to  fan  the  brow 
like  the  breath  of  a  fond  mother  bending  over  her  smiling  child , 
a  voluptuous  lulling  of  half-whispered  words,  and  hushed  and 
dreamy  sentences,  which  wrapped  one  in  rays  and  murmurs. 


RAPHAEL.  89 

stillness  and  perfume,  and  led  one  gently  by  the  soft  and  sooth 
ing  syllables,  to  the  repose  of  love,  the  still  sleep  of  the  soul, 
unto  the  kiss  upon  the  page  which  said  farewell !  The  fare- 
well and  the  kiss  both  silently  received,  as  the  lips  silently 
impressed  them !  I  have  seen  those  letters  all  again ;  I  have 
read  over,  page  by  page,  this  correspondence,  bound  up  and 
classed,  after  death,  by  the  pious  hand  of  friendship  ;  one  letter 
answering  the  other,  from  the  first  note  down  to  the  last  word 
written  by  the  death-struck  hand,  to  which  love  still  imparted 
strength.  I  have  read  them  o'er  and  burned  them  with  teai:s, 
in  secret,  as  if  I  committed  a  crime,  and  snatching  twenty  times 
the  half  consumed  page  from  the  flames  to  read  it  once  again  ! 
Why  did  I  thus  destroy  1  .Because  their  very  ashes  would  have 
been  too  burning  for  this  world,  and  I  have  scattered  them  to 
the  winds  of  heaven! 

/  ft~4**~)  L^irVi  >6to  ft*--&~-L<£A 
LVII. — At  length  the  day  came  when  I  could  reckon  the 
hours  that  still  separated  me  from  Julie.  All  the  resources 
that  I  could  command  did  not  amount  to  a  sufficient  sum  to 
keep  me  three  or  four  months  in  Paris.  My  mother,  who 
noticed  my  distress,  without  guessing  its  cause,  drew  from  the 
casket  which  her  fondness  had  already  nearly  emptied,  a  large 
diamond,  mounted  as  a  ring.  Alas !  it  was  the  last  remaining 
jewel  of  her  youth !  She  slipped  it  secretly  into  my  hand, 
with  tears.  "  I  suffer  as  much  as  you  can,  Raphael,"  she  said, 
with  a  mournful  look,  "to  see  your  unprofitable  youth  wasted 
in  the  idleness  of  a  small  town,  or  in  the  reveries  of  a  country 
life.  I  had  always  hoped  that  the  gifts  of  God  that,  from  your 
infancy,  I  rejoiced  to  see  in  you,  would  attract  the  notice  of  the 
world,  and  open  to  you  a  career  of  fortune  arid  honor.  The 
poverty  against  which  we  have  to  struggle  does  not  allow  us  to 
bring  you  forward.  Hitherto  such  has  been  the  will  of  God, 
and  we  must  submit  with  resignation  to  his  ways,  which  are 
always  the  best.  Yet  it  is  with  grief  I  see  you  sinking  into 
that  moral  languor  which  always  follows  fruitless  endeavors. 
Let  us  try  Fate  once  more.  Go,  since  the  earth  here  seems  to 
burn  beneath  your  feet,  go  and  live  for  awhile  in  Paris.  Call, 
with  reserve  and  dignity,  on  those  old  friends  of  your  family, 
who  are  now  in  power.  Show  the  talents  with  which  nature 
and  study  have  endowed  you.  It  is  impossible  that  those  at 
the  head  of  the  government  should  not  strive  to  attract  young 
men  able  as  you  would  be,  to  serve,  support,  and  adorn  the 


SO  RAPHAEL. 


reign  of  the  princes  whom  God  has  restored  to  us.  Your  poor 
father  has  much  to  do  to  bring  up  his  six  children,  and  not  to 
fall  below  his  rank  in  the  distresses  of  our  rustic  life.  Your 
other  relations  are  good  and  kind,  but  they  will  not  understand 
that  breathing-space  and  action  are  necessary  to  the  devouring 
activity  of  the  mind  at  twenty.  Here  is  my  last  jewel ;  I  had 
promised  my  mother  never  to  part  with  it  save  from  dire  neces- 
sity. Take  it,  and  sell  it;  it  will  serve  to  maintain  you  in  Paris 
a  few  weeks  longer.  It  is  the  last  token  of  my  love,  which  1 
stake  for  you  in  the  lottery  of  Providence.  It  must  bi-ing  you 
good  luck ;  for  my  solicitude,  my  prayers,  my  tenderness  for 
you  go  with  it."  I  took  the  ring,  and  kissed  my  mother's  hand ; 
a  tear  fell  upon  the  diamond.  Alas !  it  served  not  to  allow 
me  to  seek  or  to  await  the  favor  of  great  men  or  princes  who 
turned  away  from  my  obscurity,  but  to  live  three  months  of  that 
divine  life  of  the  heart  worth  centuries  of  greatness.  This 
sacred  diamond  was  to  me  as  Cleopatra's  pearl  dissolved  in 
my  cup  of  life,  from  which  I  drank  happiness  and  love  for 
a  short  time. 

LVIII. — I  completely  altered  my  habits  from  that  day,  from 
respect  for  my  poor  mother's  repeated  sacrifices,  arid  the  con- 
centration of  all  my  thoughts  in  this  one ;  to  see  once  more 
my  love,  and  to  prolong  as  much  as  possible,  by  the  strictest 
economy,  the  allotted  time  I  was  to  spend  with  Julie.  I  be- 
came as  calculating,  and  as  sparing  of  the  little  gold  I  took 
with  me,  as  an  old  miser.  It  seemed  as  though  the  most 
trifling  sum  I  spent  was  an  hour  of  my  happiness,  or  a  drop  of  my 
felicity  lhat  I  wasted.  1  resolved  to  live  like  Jean  Jacques  Rous- 
seau, on  little  or  nothing,  and  to  retrench  from  my  vanity,  my 
dress  or  my  food,  all  that  I  wished  to  bestow  on  the  rapture  of 
my  soul.  I  was  not,  however,  without  an  undefined  hope  of 
making  some  use  of  my  talents  in  the  cause  of  my  love.  These 
were  as  yet  made  known  to  a  few  friends  only,  by  some  verses ; 
but  in  the  three  last  mouths,  I  had  written,  during  my  sleepless 
nights,  a  little  volume  of  poetry,  amatory,  melancholy,  or  pious, 
according  as  my  imagination  spoke  to  me  in  tender  or  in  serious 
notes.  The  whole  had  been  copied  out  with  care,  in  my  best 
hand-writing,  and  shown  to  my  father,  who  was  an  excellent 
critic,  though  somewhat  severe;  a  few  friends,  too,  had  favor- 
cbly  judged  some  fragments.  1  had  bound  up  my  poetical 
treasure  in  green,  a  color  of  good  omen  for  my  hopes  of  fume ; 


RAPHAEL.  91 


but  I  had  not  shown  it  to  my  mother,  whose  chaste  and  pious 
purity  of  mind  might  have  taken  alarm  at  the  more  antique 
than  Christian  voluptuousness  of  some  of  my  elegies.  I  hoped 
that  the  simple  grace  and  the  winged  enthusiasm  of  my  poetry 
might  please  some  intelligent  publisher,  who  would  buy  my 
volume,  or  at  least  consent  to  print  it  at  his  own  expense ;  and 
that  the  public  taste,  attracted  by  the  novelty  of  a  style  spring- 
ing from  the  heart,  and  nursed  in  the  woods,  would  perhaps 
confer  on  me  a  humble  fortune  and  a  name. 

LIX. — I  had  no  need  to  look  for  a  lodging  in  Paris.  On« 
of  my  friends,  the  young  Count  de  V  *  *  *,  who  had  just  re- 
turned from  his  travels,  was  to  spend  the  winter  and  the  follow- 
ing spring  there,  and  had  offered  to  share  with  me  a  little 
entresol  that  he  occupied,  over  the  rooms  of  the  concierge  in 
the  magnificent  hotel  (since  pulled  clown)  of  the  Marechal  de 
Richelieu,  in  the  Rue  Neuve  St.  Augustin.  The  Count  de 
V  *  *  *,  with  whom  I  was  in  almost  daily  correspondence, 
knew  all.  I  had  given  him  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Julie, 
that-  he  might  know  the  soul  of  my  soul,  and  that  he  might 
understand,  if  not  my  delirium,  at  least  my  adoration  for  that 
woman.  At  first  sight,  he  comprehended  and  almost  shared 
my  enthusiasm.  In  his  letters,  he  always  alluded,  with  tender 
pity  and  respect,  to  that  fair  vision  of  melancholy,  which  seemed 
hovering  between  life  and  death,  and  only  detained  on  earth, 
he  said,  by  the  ineffable  love  she  bore  to  me.  He  always  spoke 
to  me  of  her  as  of  a  heavenly  gift,  sent  to  my  eyes  arid  heart, 
and  which  would  raise  me  above  human  nature  as  long  as  I 
remained  enveloped  in  her  radiance.  V  *  *,  who  was  per 
suaded  of  the  holy  and  superhuman  nature  of  our  attachment, 
considered  it  as  a  virtue,  and  felt  no  repugnance  to  being  the 
mediator  and  confidant  of  our  love  :  Julie  on  her  part  spoke  of 
V  *  *  *  as  the  only  friend  she  considered  worthy  of  me,  and 
for  whom  she  would  have  wished  to  increase  my  friendship, 
instead  of  detracting  from  it  by  a  mean  jealousy  of  the  heart. 
Both  urged  me  to  come  to  Paris,  but  V  *  *  *  alone  knew  the 
secret  motives,  and  the  strictly  material  impossibility  which  had 
detained  me  till  then.  Spite  of  his  devoted  friendship,  of  which 
he  gave  me,  until  his  death,  so  many  proofs  during  the  troubles 
of  my  life,  it  was  not  in  his  power  at  that  time  to  remove  the 
obstacles  that  arrested  me.  His  mother  had  exhausted  her 
means  to  give  him  an  education  befitting  his  rank,  and  to  allow 


92  RAPHAEL. 

him  to  travel  through  Europe.  He  was  himself  deep  in  debt, 
and  could  only  offer  me  a  corner  in  the  apartment  that  his 
family  provided  for  him.  As  to  all  the  rest,  he  was,  at  that 
time  of  his  life,  as  poor  and  as  much  enslaved  as  myself  by  the 
want  so  cruelly  defined  by  Horace — lies  angusta  domi. 

I  left  M  *  *  *  in  a  little  one-horse  jaunting  car,  consisting  of 
a  wooden  seat  on  an  axle-tree,  and  four  poles  which  supported 
a  tarpaulin  to  shelter  us  against  the  rain.  These  cars  changed 
horses  every  four  or  five  miles,  and  served  to  convey  to  Paris 
the  masons  from  the  Bourbonnais  and  from  Auvergne,  the 
weary  pedestrians  they  met  on  the  road,  and  soldiers  lamed  by 
their  long  marches  who  were  glad  to  spare  a  day's  fatigue  for  a 
few  sous.  I  felt  no  shame  or  annoyance  at  this  vulgar  mode  of 
conveyance :  I  would  have  traveled  bare-footed  through  the 
snow,  arid  not  have  felt  less  proud  or  less  happy,  for  I  wa? 
saving  thus  one  or  two  louis  with  which  I  could  purchase  some 
days  of  happiness.  I  reached  the  barrier  of  Paris  without 
having  felt  a  pebble  of  the  road.  The  night  was  dark,  and  it  was 
raining  hard ;  I  took  up  my  portmanteau,  and  soon  after  knock- 
ed at  the  door  of  the  humble  lodging  of  the  Count  de  V  *  *  *. 

He  was  waiting  for  me ;  he  embraced  me,  and  spoke  of  her. 
I  was  never  wearied  of  questioning  and  listening  to  him.  That 
Bame  evening  I  was  to  see  Julie.  V  *  *  *  was  to  announce 
my  arrival,  and  prepare  her  for  joy.  When  every  visitor  had 
retired  from  Julie's  drawing-room,  V  *  *  *  was  to  leave  last  of 
all  to  join  me  at  a  little  cafe  of  the  neighborhood,  where  1  was 
to  wait  for  him,  and  give  me  notice  that  she  was  alone,  and  that 
I  might  throw  myself  at  her  feet.  It  was  only  after  I  had 
leai'ned  all  these  particulars,  that  I  thought  of  drying  my  clothes 
and  taking  some  refreshment.  I  then  took  possession  of  the 
dark  alcove  of  his  ante-room,  which  was  lighted  by  one  round 
window,  and  heated  by  a  stove.  I  dressed  myself  neatly  and 
simply,  so  that  she  I  loved  might  not  blush  for  me  before  her 
friends. 

At  eleven  o'clock  V  *  *  *  and  I  went  out  on  foot ;  we  pro- 
ceeded together  as  far  as  the  window  which  I  knew  already. 
There  were  three  carriages  at  the  door.  V  *  *  *  went  up,  and 
I  retired  to  wait  for  him  at  the  appointed  place.  How  long 
that  hour  seemed  while  I  waited  for  him.  How  I  execrated 
those  visitors  who,  involuntarily  importunate,  came  in  their 
indifference  to  dispose  of  some  idle  hours,  and  delayed  the 
reunion  of  two  fond  hearts  who  counted  each  second  of  their 


RAPHAEL.  93 


martyrdom  by  their  palpitations !  At  last  V  *  *  *  appeared,  I 
followed  rapidly  on  his  steps,  he  left  me  at  the  door,  and  I 
went  up. 

LX. — If  I  were  to  live  a  thousand  times  a  thousand  years,  I 
should  never  forget  that  instant  and  that  sight !  She  was 
standing  up  in  the  light,  her  elbow  resting  carelessly  on  the 
white  marble  of  the  chimney ;  her  tall  and  slender  figure,  her 
jhoulders  and  her  profile,  were  reflected  in  the  glass ;  her  face 
was  turned  toward  the  door,  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  little  dark 
oassage  leading  to  the  drawing-room,  and  her  head  was  bent 
forward,  and  slightly  inclined  on  one  side,  in  the  attitude  of  one 
listening  for  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps.  She  was 
dressed  in  mourning,  in  a  black  silk  dress,  trimmed  with  black 
lace  round  the  neck  and  the  skirt.  This  profusion  of  lace, 
rumpled  by  the  cushions  of  the  sofa  to  which  her  indolent  and 
languid  life  confined  her,  hung  around  her  like  the  black  and 
clustering  bunches  of  the  elder,  shedding  its  berries  in  the 
autumnal  wind.  The  dark  color  of  her  gown  left  only  her 
shoulders,  neck,  and  face  in  light,  and  the  mourning  of  her  dress 
seemed  completed  by  the  natural  mourning  of  her  dark  hair, 
which  was  gathered  up  at  the  back  of  her  head.  This  uniform- 
ity of  color  added  to  her  height,  and  showed  to  advantage  her 
graceful  and  flexible  figure.  The  reflection  of  the  fire  in  the 
glass,  the  light  of  the  lamp  on  the  chimney-piece  sticking  on  her 
cheek,  and  the  animation  of  impatient  expectation  and  love, 
shed  on  her  countenance  a  splendor  of  youth,  bloom,  and  life, 
which  seemed  a  transfiguration  effected  by  love. 

My  first  exclamation  was  one  of  joy  and  delighted  surprise  at 
seeing  her  thus,  more  living,  lovely,  and  immortal,  in  my  eyes, 
than  I  had  ever  seen  her  in  the  brightest  days  of  Savoy.  A 
feeling  of  deceitful  security  and  eternal  possession  entered  into 
my  heart,  as  my  eyes  fell  on  her.  She  tried  to  stammer  forth  a 
few  words  on  seeing  me,  but  could  not.  Her  lips  trembled 
with  emotion.  I  fell  at  her  feet,  and  pressed  my  lips  to  the 
carpet  upon  which  she  trod.  I  then  looked  up  to  assure  myself 
that  her  presence  was  not  a  dream.  She  laid  one  of  her  hands 
upon  my  hair,  which  thrilled  beneath  her  touch,  and  holding  by 
the  other  to  the  marble  of  the  chimney-piece,  she  too  fell  on  her 
knees  before  me.  We  gazed  at  each  other  at  a  distance.  We 
sought  words,  and  found  none  for  our  excess  of  joy.  We 
remained  silent;  but  that  very  silence  and  our  kneelirg  posture 


94  RAPHAEL. 


was  a  language  :  I  knelt  full  of  adoration,  slie  full  of  happiness  : 
and  our  attitude  seemed  to  say,  They  adore  one  another,  but  a 
phantom  of  Death  stands  between,  and  though  their  eyes  drink 
rapture,  they  will  never  be  clasped  in  each  other's  arms. 

LXI. — I  know  not  how  many  minutes  we  remained  thus,  nor 
how  many  thousand  interrogations  and  answers,  what  floods  of 
tears,  and  oceans  of  joy,  passed  unexpressed  between  our  mute 
and  closed  lips,  between  our  moistened  eyes,  between  her 
countenance  and  mine.  Happiness  had  struck  us  motionless, 
and  time  had  ceased  to  be.  It  was  eternity  in  an  instant ! 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  street  door — a  sound  of  feet  on  the 
stairs.  I  rose,  and  she  resumed  with  a  faltering  step  her  place 
on  the  sofa.  I  sat  down  on  the  other  side,  in  the  shade,  to  hide 
my  flushed  cheeks  and  tearful  eyes.  A  man  of  already  ad- 
vanced age,  of  imposing  stature,  with  a  benignant,  noble,  and 
beaming  countenance,  slowly  entered  the  room.  He  appi'oach- 
ed  the  sofa  without  speaking,  and  imprinted  a  paternal  kiss  on 
Julie's  trembling  hand.  It  was  Monsieur  de  Bonald.  Spite  of 
the  painful  awakening  from  ecstasy  that  the  knock  and  arrival 
of  a  stranger  had  produced  in  me,  I  inwardly  blessed  him  fin 
having  interrupted  that  first  look  in  which  reason  might  have 
been  overpowered  by  rapture.  There  are  times  when  the  cold 
voice  of  reason  is  required  to  still  with  its  icy  tones  the  fever  of 
the  senses,  and  to  strengthen  anew  the  soul  in  its  holy  and 
energetic  resolves. 

LXII. — Julie  introduced  me  to  M.  de  Bonald  as  the  young 
man  whose  verses  he  had  read  ;  he  was  surprised  at  my  youth, 
and  addressed  me  with  indulgence.  He  conversed  with  Julie 
with  the  paternal  familiarity  of  a  man  whose  genius  had  ren- 
dered him  illustrious;  he  had  all  the  serenity  of  age,  and  sought 
in  the  company  of  a  young  and  lovely  woman,  merely  a  passing 
ray  of  beauty  to  enchant  his  eyes,  and  the  charm  of  her  society 
during  the  calm  and  conversational  hours  of  the  close  of  day. 
His  voice  was  deep,  as  though  it  came  from  the  heart,  and  his 
conversation  flowed  with  the  graceful,  yet  serious  ease  of  a 
mind  which  seeks  to  unbend  in  repose.  Honesty  was  stamped 
on  his  brow,  and  spoke  in  the  accents  of  his  voice.  As  the  con- 
versation seemed  likely  to  be  prolonged,  and  the  clock  was  on 
the  point  of  striking  twelve,  I  thought  it  light  to  take  my  leave 
first,  so  as  to  create  no  suspicion  of  too  great  familiarity  in  the 


RAPHAEL.  95 

mind  of  a  friend  and  visitor  of  older  standing  than  myself  in  the 
house.  Silence  and  one  single  look  were  tlie  only  reward  I  re- 
ceived for  my  long  and  ardent  expectation,  and  my  weary  jour- 
ney ;  but  I  bore  away  with  me  her  image,  and  the  certainty  of 
seeing  her  every  day  ;  that  was  enough  ;  it  was  too  much  !  I 
wandered  a  long  while  on  the  quays,  baring  my  breast  to  the 
night  air,  and  aspiring  it  with  my  lips,  to  allay  the  fever  of  hap- 
piness which  possessed  me.  On  my  return  home,  I  found  that 
V  *  *  had  been  asleep  many  hours  ;  as  for  me,  it  was  daylight, 
and  I  had  heard  the  cries  of  the  venders  in  the  streets  of  Paris 
before  I  closed  my  eyes 

My  days  were  filled  with  one  single  thought,  which  I  treas- 
ured up  in  my  heart  and  would  not  even  allow  my  countenance 
to  reveal,  as  a  precious  perfume,  of  which  one  would  fear  to  let 
a  particle  evaporate,  by  exposing  the  vase  that  contains  it  to  the 
outward  air.  I  used  to  rise  with  the  first  rays  of  light,  which 
always  penetrated  tardily  into  the  dark  alcove  of  the  little  ante- 
room, where  my  friend  gave  me  shelter  like  a  mendicant  of 
love.  I  always  began  the  day  by  a  long  letter  to  Julie,  which 
was  but  a  calmer  continuation  of  the  conversation  of  the  day 
before ;  in  it  I  poured  forth  all  the  thoughts  that  had  suggested 
themselves  since  I  had  left  her.  Love  feels  delightful  remorse 
at  its  tender  omissions,  accuses,  reproaches  itself,  and  feels  no 
rest  till  they  have  been  repaired;  they  are  gems  fallen  from  the 
heart  or  the  lips  of  the  loved  one,  which  cause  the  lover's 
thoughts  to  travel  back  over  the  past,  .to  gather  them  up,  and 
to  increase  the  treasure  of  his  feelings.  Julie,  when  she  awoke, 
received  my  letter,  which  made  it  appear  to  her  as  though  the 
conversation  of  the  preceding  evening  had  not  been  interrupted, 
but  had  been  kept  up  in  whispered  tones  during  her  sleep.  I 
always  received  her  answer  before  noon. 

My  heart  being  thus  appeased,  after  the  agitation  of  the 
night,  my  next  thought  was  to  calm  the  impatience  for  the 
evening's  interview,  which  began  to  lake  possession  of  me.  I 
strove  not  to  divert  my  heart  from  its  one  thought,  but  to  interest 
my  eyes  and  mind,  and  had  laid  down  as  a  law  to  myself  to 
spend  several  hours  in  reading  and  study,  to  occupy  the  inter- 
val between  the  time  when  I  left  Julie  till  we  met  again.  I 
wished  to  improve  myself  not  for  others,  but  for  her;  in  order 
that  he  whom  she  loved  should  not  disgrace  her  preference  ; 
and  that  those  superior  men  who  composed  her  society,  and 
who  sometimes  saw  me  in  her  drawing-room,  slanging  at  a 


98  RAPHAEL. 

comer  of  the  fire-place,  like  a  statue  of  contemplation,  should 
discover  in  me,  if  by  chance  they  spoke  to  me,  a  soul,  an  intel- 
ligence, a  hope,  or  a  promise,  beneath  my  timid  and  silent 
appearance.  Then  I  had  vague  dreams  of  shining  exploits,  of 
a  stirring  destiny,  which  Julie  would  watch  from  afar,  and  re- 
joice to  see  me  struggling  with  men,  rising  in  strength,  in  great- 
ness, and  in  power ;  I  thought  she  might  one  day  glory  secretly 
in  having  appreciated  me  before  the  crowd,  and  in  having  loved 
me  before  posterity. 

LXIII. — All  this,  and  still  more,  my  forced  leisure,  the  ob- 
session of  one  besetting  thought,  my  contempt  for  all  beside, 
the  want  of  money  to  procure  other  amusement,  and  the  almost 
claustral  reclusion  in  which  I  lived,  disposed  me  to  a  life  of 
more  intense  and  eager  study  than  I  had  yet  led.  I  passed  my 
whole  day  seated  at  a  little  writing-table,  which  was  placed  be- 
neath the  small,  round  window  opening  on  the  yard  of  the 
Hotel  Richelieu.  The  room  was  heated  by  a  Dutch  stove ;  a 
screen  inclosed  my  table  and  chair,  and  hid  me  from  the  obser- 
vation of  the  young  men  of  fashion,  who  often  came  to  see  my 
friend.  In  the  spacious  yard  below  there  were  sounds  of  car- 
riages, then  silence,  and  now  and  then  bright  rays  of  winter 
sun,  struggling  against  the  groveling  fog  of  the  streets  of  Paris, 
which  reminded  me  a  little  of  the  play  of  light,  the  sounds  of 
the  wind,  and  the  transparent  mists  of  our  mountains.  Some- 
times I  would  see  a  sweet  little  boy  of  six  or  eight  years  old  play- 
ing there  ;  he  was  the  son  of  the  concierge.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  face  which  seemed  that  of  a  suffering  angel,  in  his 
fair  hair  curled  on  his  forehead,  and  in  his  intelligent  and  ingen- 
uous countenance,  that  reminded  me  of  the  innocent  faces  of 
the  children  of  my  own  province,  and  indeed  1  discovered  that 
his  family  had  come  originally  from  a  village  near  that  in  which 
my  father  resided  ;  had  fallen  into  want,  and  had  been  trans- 
planted to  Paris,  This  child  had  conceived  a  fondness  for  me, 
from  seeing  me  always  at  the  window  above  the  rooms  his 
mother  inhabited,  and  had,  of  his  own  accord  and  gratuitously, 
devoted  himself  to  my  service.  He  executed  all  my  messages; 
brought  me  my  bread,  some  cheese,  or  the  fruit  for  my  break- 
fast ;  and  went  every  morning  to  purchase  my  little  provisions 
at  the  grocer's.  I  used  to  take  my  frugal  repast  on  my  writing- 
table,  in  the  midst  of  my  open  books  or  interrupted  pages. 
The  child  had  a  black  dog,  which  had  been  forgotten  at  th« 


RAPHAEL.  97 

houce  by  some  visitor;  this  dog  had  ended,  like  the  child,  by 
attaching  itself  to  me,  and  they  could  not  be  made  to  go  down 
the  little  wooden  stairs  when  once  they  had  ascended  them. 
During  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  they  lay  and  played  to- 
gethei  on  the  mat  at  my  feet,  beneath  my  table.  At  a  later 
period  I  took  away  the  dog  with  me  from  Pans,  and  kept  it 
many  years,  as  a  loving  and  faithful  memento  of  those  days 
of  solitude.  I  lost  him  in  1820,  not  without  tears,  in  traversing 
the  forests  of  the  Pontine  Marshes,  between  Rome  and  Terra- 
cina.  The  poor  child  is  become  a  man,  and  has  learned  the  art 
of  engraving,  which  he  practices  ably  at  Lyons.  My  name 
having  resounded  since,  even  in  his  shop,  he  came  to  see  me, 
and  wept  with  joy  at  beholding  me,  and  with  grief  at  hearing 
of  the  loss  of  the  dog.  Poor  heart  of  man  !  that  ever  requires 
what  it  has  once  loved,  and  that  sheds  tears  of  the  same  water, 
for  the  loss  of  an  empire,  or  for  the  loss  of  an  animal. 

LXIV. — During  the  thousands  of  hours  in  which  I  was  thus 
confined  between  the  stove,  the  screen,  tho  window,  the  child, 
and  the  dog,  I  read  over  all  that  antiquity  has  written,  and  be- 
queathed to  us,  except  the  poets,  with  whom  we  had  been  sur- 
feited at  school,  and  in  whose  verses  our  wearied  eyes  saw 
but  the  caesura,  and  the  long  or  short  syllables.  Sad  effect  of 
premature  satiety,  which  withers  in  the  mind  of  a  child  the 
most  brightly  tinted  and  perfumed  flowers  of  human  thought. 
But  I  read  over  every  philosopher,  orator,  and  historian,  in  his 
own  language.  I  loved  especially  those  who  united  the  three 
great  faculties  of  intelligence,  narration,  eloquence,  and  reflec- 
tion ;  the  fact,  the  discourse,  and  the  moral.  Thucydides  and 
Tacitus  above  all  others,  then  Machiavel,  the  sublime  practi- 
tioner of  the  diseases  of  empires,  then  Cicero,  the  sonorous  vessel 
which  contains  all,  from  the  individual  tears  of  the  man,  the  hus- 
band, the  father,  and  the  friend,  up  to  the  catastrophes  of  Rome 
and  of  the  world,  even  to  his  gloomy  forebodings  of  his  own  fate. 
There  is  in  Cicero  a  stratum  of  divine  philosophy  and  serenity, 
through  which  all  waters  seem  to  be  filtrated  and  clarified,  and 
through  which  his  great  mind  flows  in  torrents  of  eloquence, 
wisdom,  piety,  and  harmony.  I  had,  till  then,  thought  him  a 
great,  but  empty  speaker,  with  little  sense  contained  in  his  long 
periods ;  I  was  mistaken.  Next  to  Plato,  he  is  the  word  of 
antiquity  made  man  ;  his  style  is  the  grandest  of  any  language. 
We  suppose  him  meager,  because  his  drapery  is  so  magnificent ; 

E 


98  RAPHAEL 

strip  him  of  his  purple,  and  you  will  still  find  a  vast  mind, 
which  has  felt,  understood,  and  said,  all  that  there  was  to  com- 
prehend, to  feel,  or  to  say,  in  his  day,  in  Rome. 

LXV. — As  to  Tacitus,  I  did  not  even  attempt  to  combat  my 
partiality  for  him.  I  preferred  him  even  to  Thucydides,  the 
Demosthenes  of  history.  Thucydides  relates,  but  does  not  give 
Jife  and  being.  Tacitus  is  not  the  historian,  but  a  compendium 
of  mankind.  His  narration  is  the  countei'-blow  of  the  fact  in 
the  heart  of  a  free,  virtuous,  and  feeling  man.  The  shudder 
that  one  feels  as  one  reads,  not  only  passes  over  the  flesh,  but 
is  a  shudder  of  the  heart.  His  sensibility  is  more  than  emotion, 
it  is  pity ;  his  judgments  are  more  than  vengeance,  they  are 
justice;  his  indignation  is  more  than  anger,  it  is  virtue.  Oui 
hearts  mingle  with  that  of  Tacitus,  and  we  feel  proud  of  oui 
kindred  with  him.  Would  you  make  crime  impossible  to  your 
sons?  Would  you  inspire  them  with  the  love  of  virtue]  Rear 
them  in  the  love  of  Tacitus.  If  they  do  not  become  heroes  at 
such  a  school,  Nature  must  have  created  them  base  or  vile.  A 
people  who  adopted  Tacitus  as  their  political  gospel,  would  rise 
above  the  common  stature  of  nations ;  such  a  people  would 
enact  before  God,  the  tragical  drama  of  mankind  in  all  its 
grandeur  and  in  all  its  majesty.  As  to  me,  I  owe  to  his  writings 
more  than  the  fibers  of  the  flesh,  I  owe  all  the  metallic  fibers 
of  my  being.  Should  our  vulgar  and  common-place  days  ever 
rise  to  the  tragic  grandeur  of  his  time,  and  I  become  the  worthy 
victim  of  a  worthy  cause,  I  might  exclaim  in  dying,  "  Give  the 
honor  of  my  life  and  of  my  death  to  the  master,  and  not  to  the 
disciple;  for  it  is  Tacitus  that  lived,  and  dies  in  me." 

LXVI. — I  was  also  a  passionate  admirer  of  orators.  L  studied 
.hem  with  the  presentiment  of  a  man  who  would  one  day  have 
.o  speak  to  the  deaf  multitude,  and  who  would  strike  the  chords 
of  human  auditories.  I  studied  Demosthenes,  Cicero,  Mirabeau, 
and  especially  Lord  Chatham — more  striking  to  my  mind  than 
all  the  rest,  because  his  inspired  and  lyrical  eloquence  seems 
more  like  a  cry  than  like  a  voice.  It  soars  above  his  limited 
auditory,  and  the  passions  of  the  day,  on  the  loftiest  wings  of 
poetry,  to  the  immutable  regions  of  eternal  truth  and  of  eternal 
feeling.  Chatham  receives  truth  from  the  hand  of  God  ;  and 
with  him  it  becomes  not  only  the  light,  but  also  the  thunder  of 
the  debate.  Unfortunately,  as  in  the  case  of  Phidias,  at  the 


RAPHAEL.  09 

Parthenon,  we  have  only  fragments — heads,  arms,  and  mutilated 
trunks — left  of  him.  But  when  in  thought  we  re-assemble  these 
remains,  we  produce  man-els  and  divinities  of  eloquence.  I 
pictured  to  myself  times,  events,  and  passions,  like  those  which 
upraised  these  great  men,  a  forum  such  as  those  they  filled, 
and  like  Demosthenes  addressing  the  billows  of  the  sea,  I  spoke 
inwardly  to  the  phantoms  of  my  imagination. 

LXVII. — About  this  period,  I  read  for  the  first  time  the 
speeches  of  Fox  and  Pitt.  I  thought  Fox  declamatory,  though 
prosaic  ;  one  of  those  caviling  minds,  born  to  gainsay,  rathei 
than  to  say — lawyers  without  gowns,  with  mere  lip-conscience, 
who  plead  above  all  for  their  own  popularity.  I  saw  in  Pitt 
a  statesman  whose  words  were  deeds,  and  who,  in  the  crash  of 
Europe,  maintained  his  country  almost  alone,  on  the  foundation 
of  his  good  sense,  and  the  consistency  of  his  character.  Pitt 
was  Mirabeau,  with  less  impulse,  and  more  integrity.  Mirabeau 
and  Pitt  became,  and  have  ever  continued  to  be,  my  favorite 
statesmen  of  modern  days.  Compared  with  them,  I  saw  in 
Montesquieu  only  erudite,  ingenious,  and  systematical  disserta- 
tions; Fenelon  seemed  to  me  divine,  but  chimerical ;  Rousseau, 
more  impassioned  than  inspired,  greater  by  instinct  than  by 
truth  ;  while  Bossuet,  with  his  golden  eloquence  and  fawning 
soul,  united,  in  his  conduct  and  his  language  before  Louis  XIV., 
doctoral  despotism  with  the  complaisance  of  a  courtier.  From 
these  studies  of  history  and  oratory,  I  naturally  passed  on  to 
politics.  The  remembrance  of  the  imperial  yoke  which  had 
just  been  shaken  off,  and  my  abhorrence  of  the  military  rule  to 
which  we  had  been  subjected,  impelled  me  toward  liberty.  On 
the  other  hand,  family  recollections,  the  influence  of  daily  asso- 
ciations, the  touching  situation  of  a  royal  family,  passing  from 
a  throne  to  a  scaffold  or  to  exile,  and  brought  back  from  exile 
to  a  throne  ;  the  orphan  princess  in  the  palace  of  her  fathers, 
those  old  men,  crowned  by  misfortune  as  much  as  by  their 
ancestry  ;  those  young  princes,  schooled  by  stern  adversity, 
from  whom  so  much  might  be  expected — all  made  me  hope 
that  new-born  liberty  might  be  made  to  accord  with  the  ancient 
monarchy  of  our  forefathers.  The  government  would  thus  have 
possessed  the  two  most  potent  spells  in  all  human  affairs — an- 
tiquity and  novelty,  memory  and  hope.  It  was  a  fair  drearn, 
and  most  natural  at  my  age.  Each  succeeding  day,  however, 
dispelled  a  portion  of  this  dream  :  I  perceived  with  grief  that 


100  RAPHAEL. 


old  forms  but  ill  contain  new  ideas — that  monarchy  and  liberty 
would  never  hold  together  in  one  bond  without  a  perpetual 
struggle — that  in  that  struggle  the  strength  of  the  state  would 
be  exhausted,  that  monarchy  would  be  constantly  suspected, 
liberty  constantly  betrayed. 

LXVIII. — From  these  general  studies  I  turned  to  another, 
that  perhaps  engrossed  my  mind  the  more  from  the  very  aridity 
and  dryness  of  its  nature,  so  far  removed  from  the  intoxications 
of  love  and  fancy  in  which  I  lived.  I  mean  political  economy, 
or  the  science  of  the  wealth  of  nations.  V***  had  applied  his 
mind  to  it  with  more  curiosity  than  ardor.  All  the  Italian, 
English,  or  French  books  that  had  been  written  on  the  science, 
lined  his  shelves  and  covered  his  table.  We  read  and  discussed 
them  together,  noting  down  the  remarks  that  they  suggested. 
The  science  of  political  economy,  which  at  that  time  laid  down, 
as  it  still  does  in  the  present  day,  more  axioms  than  truths,  and 
proposed  more  problems  than  it  can  solve,  had  for  us  precisely 
the  charm  of  mystery.  It  became,  moreover,  between  us  an 
endless  theme  for  those  conversations  which  exercise  the  intel- 
ligence without  engrossing  the  mind,  and  suffer  us  to  feel,  even 
while  conversing,  the  presence  of  the  one  secret  and  continuous 
thought  concealed  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  our  hearts.  It  was 
an  enigma,  of  which  we  sought  the  answer  without  any  great 
desire  to  find  it.  After  having  read,  examined,  and  noted  all 
that  constituted  the  science  at  that  time,  I  fancied  I  could  dis- 
cern a  few  theoretical  principles,  true  in  their  generality,  doubt- 
ful in  their  application,  ambitiously  aspiring  to  be  classed  among 
absolute  truths,  often  hollow  or  false  in  their  formula.  I  had 
no  objection  to  make,  but  my  instinctive  desire  of  demonstration 
was  not  thoroughly  satisfied.  I  threw  down  the  books,  and 
awaited  the  light.  Political  economy  at  that  time  did  not  exist; 
being  an  entirely  experimental  science,  it  had  neither  sufficient 
maturity  nor  long  standing  to  affirm  so  positively.  Since  then 
it  has  progressed,  and  promises  to  statesmen  a  few  dogmas 
which  may  be  applied  cautiously  to  society;  a  few  sources  of 
general  comfort,  and  some  new  ties  of  fraternity,  to  be  strength 
«ned  between  nations. 

LXIX. — I  varied  these  serious  pursuits  with  the  study  of 
diplomacy,  or  the  laws  of  intercourse  between  governments, 
which  had  always  attracted  me  from  my  early  youth.  Chance 


RAPHAEL.  101 

directed  me  to  the  fountain-head.  At  the  time  that  I  applied 
myself  to  political  economy,  I  had  written  a  pamphlet  of  about 
a  hundred  pages,  on  a  subject  which  at  that  period  attracted  a 
great  share  of  public  attention.  The  title  of  the  pamphlet  was: 

What  place  can  tlie  nobility  occupy  in  France,  under  a  constitu- 
tional government  ?  I  treated  this  question,  which  was  a  most 
delicate  one  at  the  time,  with  the  instinctive  good  sense  that 
nature  had  allotted  to  me,  and  with  the  impartiality  of  a  youth- 
ful mind  ;  soaring,  without  effort,  above  the  vanities  from  on 
high,  the  envy  from  below,  and  the  prejudices  of  his  day.  I 
spoke  with  love  of  the  people,  with  intelligence  of  our  institu- 
tions, and  with  respect  of  that  historic  nobility  whose  names 
were  long  the  name  of  France  herself,  on  her  battle-fields,  in 
her  magistracy,  and  in  foreign  lands.  I  was  for  the  suppression 
of  all  privileges  of  nobility,  save  the  memory  of  nations,  which  can 
not  be  suppressed  ;  and  proposed  an  elective  peerage,  showing, 
that  in  a  free  country,  there  could  be  no  other  nobility  than 
that  of  election,  which  is  a  perpetual  stimulus  to  public  duty, 
and  a  temporary  reward  of  the  merit  or  virtues  of  its  citizens. 

Julie,  to  whom  I  had  lent  the  manuscript,  in  order  to  initiate 
her  to  my  labors  as  to  my  life,  had  shown  it  to  Monsieur  M***, 
a  clever  man,  of  her  intimate  acquaintance,  for  whose  judgment 
she  entertained  the  greatest  deference.  M.  M  *  *  *  was  the  worthy 
son  of  an  illustrious  member  of  the  Constituent  Assembly,  had 
been  the  Emperor's  private  secretary,  and  was  now  a  constitu- 
tional royalist.  He  was  one  of  those  whose  minds  are  never 
youthful,  who  enter  mature  into  the  world,  and  die  young, 
leaving  a  void  in  their  epoch.  M.  M  *  *  *,  after  reading  my 
work,  asked  Julie  who  was  the  political  man  who  had  written 
those  pages.  She  smiled,  and  confessed  that  they  were  the 
production  of  a  very  young  man,  who  had  neither  name  nor 
experience,  and  was  quite  unknown  in  the  political  world. 
M.  M  *  *  *  required  to  see  me  to  believe.  I  was  introduced 
to  him,  and  he  received  me  with  kindness,  which  afterward 
ripened  into  a  friendship  that  remained  unchanged  until  his 
death.  My  work  was  never  printed  ;  but  M.  M  *  *  *  in  his 
turn  introduced  me  to  his  friend  M.  de  Reyneval,  a  man  of 

uminous  understanding,  open-hearted,  and  of  an  attractive  and 
cheerful,  though  grave  and  laborious  mind,  and  who  was  at 
that  time  the  life  of  our  foreign  policy.  He  died,  not  long 
ago,  while  embassador  at  Madrid.  M.  de  Reyneval,  who  had 
read  my  work,  received  me  with  that  encouraging  grace  and 


102  RAPHAEL. 

cordial  smile,  which  seems  to  overleap  distance,  and  always 
wins  at  first  sight  the  heart  of  a  young  man.  He  was  one  of 
those  men  from  whom  it  is  pleasant  to  learn,  because  they  seem, 
so  to  speak,  to  diffuse  themselves  in  teaching,  and  to  give  rather 
than  prescribe.  One  learned  more  of  Europe  in  a  few  mornings, 
by  conversing  with  this  most  agreeable  man,  than  in  a  whole 
diplomatic  library.  He  possessed  tact,  the  innate  genius  of 
negotiations.  I  owe  to  him  my  taste  for  those  high  political 
affairs  which  he  handled  with  full  consciousness  of  their  im- 
portance, but  without  seeming  to  feel  their  weight.  His  strength 
made  every  thing  easy,  and  his  ready  condescension  seemed  to 
infuse  grace  and  heart  into  business.  He  encouraged  my  desire 
to  enter  on  the  diplomatic  career ;  presented  me  himself  to  the 
director  of  the  archives,  M.  d'Hauterive,  and  authorized  him 
to  allow  me  access  to  the  collection  of  our  treaties  and  nego- 
tiations. M.  d'Hauterive,  who  had  grown  old  over  dispatches, 
might  be  said  to  be  the  unalterable  tradition  and  the  living 
dogma  of  our  diplomacy.  With  his  commanding  figure,  hollow 
voice,  his  thick  arid  powdered  hair,  his  long,  bushy  eyebrows 
overshading  a  deep-set  and  dim  eye,  he  seemed  a  living,  speak- 
ing century.  He  received  me  as  a  father,  and  appeared  happy 
to  transmit  to  me  the  inheritance  of  all  his  hoarded  knowledge; 
he  made  me  read,  compulse,  and  take  notes  under  his  own 
eye,  and  twice  a  week  I  used  to  study  for  a  few  hours  under 
his  direction.  I  love  the  memory  of  his  green  old  age,  which 
so  prodigally  bestowed  its  experience  on  a  young  man  whose 
name  he  scarcely  knew.  M.  d'Hauterive  died  during  the  battle 
of  July,  1830,  amid  the  roar  of  the  cannon  which  annihilated 
the  policy  of  the  Bourbons  and  the  treaties  of  1815. 

LXX. — Such  were  my  studious  and  retired  habits  in  my  little 
garret.  I  wished  for  nothing  more  ;  my  desire  to  enter  on  some 
career  was  in  truth  but  my  mother's  ambition  for  me,  and  the 
regret  of  expending  the  price  of  her  diamond,  without  some 
compensation  in  my  bettered  condition.  If  at  that  time  I  had 
been  offered  an  embassy  to  quit  Paris,  and  a  palace  to  leave  my 
truckle-bed  in  the  ante-room,  I  would  have  closed  my  eyes  not 
ro  see,  and  my  ears  not  to  listen  to  Fortune.  I  was  too  happy 
in  my  obscurity,  thanks  to  the  ray,  invisible  to  others,  which 
warmed  and  illumined  my  darkness. 

My  happiness  dawned  as  the  day  declined.  I  habitually  dined 
at  home  alone  in  my  cell,  and  my  repast  generally  consisted  of 


RAPHAEL.  103 

a  slice  of  boiled  meat,  some  salad,  and  bread.  I  drank  water 
only,  to  save  the  expense  of  even  a  little  wine,  so  necessary  to 
correct  the  insipid  and  often  unwholesome  water  of  Paris.  By 
this  means,  twenty  sous  a  day  paid  for  my  dinner,  and  this  meal 
was  sufficient  not  only  for  myself,  but  to  feed  the  dog  who  had 
adopted  me.  After  dinner,  I  used  to  throw  myself  on  the  bed, 
overcome  by  the  application  and  solitude  of  the  day,  and  strive 
thus  to  abridge  by  sleep  the  long,  dark  hours  which  yet  divided 
me  from  the  moment  when  time  commenced  for  me.  These 
were  houi's  which  young  men  of  my  age  spend  in  theaters,  pub- 
lic places,  or  the  expensive  amusements  of  a  capital,  as  I  had 
done  before  my  transformation.  I  generally  awoke  about  eleven, 
and  then  dressed  with  the  simplicity  of  a  young  man  whose  good 
looks  and  figure  set  off  his  plain  attire.  I  was  always  neatly 
shod,  with  white  linen,  and  a  black  coat,  carefully  brushed  by 
my  own  hands,  which  I  buttoned  up  to  the  throat,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  young  disciples  of  the  schools  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
A  military  cloak,  whose  ample  folds  were  thrown  over  my  left 
shoulder,  preserved  my  dress  from  being  splashed  in  the  streets, 
and,  on  the  whole,  my  plain  and  unpretending  costume,  which 
neither  aspired  to  elegance  or  betrayed  my  distress,  admitted  of 
my  passing  from  my  garret  to  a  drawing-room,  without  either 
attracting  or  offending  the  eye  of  the  indifferent.  ,1  always  went 
on  foot ;  for  the  price  of  one  evening's  coach-hire  would  have 
cost  me  a  day  of  my  life  of  love.  I  walked  on  the  pavement, 
keeping  close  along  the  walls,  to  avoid  the  contact  of  carnage 
wheels,  and  proceeded  slowly  on  tip-toe,  for  fear  of  the  mud, 
which  in  a  well-lighted  drawing-room  would  have  betrayed  the 
humble  pedestrian.  I  was  in  no  hurry,  for  I  knew  that  Julie 
received  every  evening  some  of  her  husband's  friends,  and  I 
preferred  waiting  till  the  last  carriage  had  driven  away  before 
I  knocked.  This  reserve  on  my  part  arose  not  only  from  the 
fear  of  the  remarks  which  might  be  made  on  my  constant  pres- 
ence in  the  house  of  so  young  and  lovely  a  woman,  but,  above 
all,  from  my  dislike  to  share  with  others  her  looks  and  words. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  each  of  those  with  whom  she  was  obliged 
to  keep  up  a  conversation,  robbed  me  of  some  part  of  her  pres- 
ence or  her  mind.  To  see  her,  to  hear  her,  and  not  to  possess 
her  alone,  was  often  a  harder  trial  to  me  than  not  to  see  her  at  all. 

LXXI. — To  pass  away  the  time,  I  used  to  walk  from  one 
end  to  the  other  of  a  bridge  which  crossed  the  Seine  nearly  op- 


104  RAPHAEL. 

posite  to  the  house  where  Julie  lived.  How  many  thousand 
times  I  have  reckoned  the  boards  of  that  bridge  which  resound- 
ed beneath  my  feet !  How  many  copper  coins  I.  have  thrown, 
as  I  passed  and  repassed,  into  the  tin  cup  of  the  poor  blind  man, 
who  was  seated  through  rain  or  snow  on  the  parapet  of  that 
bridge  !  I  prayed  that  my  mite  which  rung  in  the  heart  of  the 
poor,  and  from  thence  in  the  ear  of  God,  might  purchase  for  me 
in  return  a  long  and  secure  evening,  and  the  departure  of  some 
intruder  who  delayed  my  happiness. 

Julie,  who  knew  my  dislike  to  meeting  strangers  at  her  house, 
had  devised  with  me  a  signal  which  should  inform  me  from  afar 
of  the  presence  or  absence  of  visitors  in  her  little  drawing-room. 
When  they  were  numerous,  the  two  inside  shutters  of  the  win- 
dow were  closed,  and  I  could  only  see  a  faint  streak  of  light 
glimmering  between  the  two  leaves  ;  when  there  were  one  or 
two  familiar  friends,  on  the  point  of  leaving,  one  shutter  was 
opened;  and  at  last,  when  all  were  gone,  the  two  shutters  were 
thrown  open,  the  curtains  withdrawn,  and  I  could  see  from  the 
opposite  quay  the  light  of  the  lamp  which  stood  on  the  little 
table,  where  she  read  or  worked  while  expecting  me.  I  never 
lost  sight  of  that  distant  ray,  which  was  visible  and  intelligible 
for  me  alone,  amid  the  thousand  lights  of  windows,  lamps,  shops, 
carriages,  and^  cafes,  and  among  all  those  avenues  of  fixed  or 
wandering  fires  which  illumine  at  night  the  buildings  and  the 
horizon  of  Paris.  All  other  illuminations  no  longer  existed  for 
me ;  there  was  no  other  light  on  earth,  no  other  star  in  the  fir- 
mament but  that  small  window,  which  seemed  like  an  open  eye, 
seeking  me  out  in  darkness,  and  on  which  my  eyes,  my  thoughts, 
my  soul,  were  ever  and  solely  bent.  O!  incomprehensible  pow- 
er of  the  infinite  nature  of  man,  which  can  fill  the  universal 
space  and  think  it  too  confined ;  or  can  be  concentrated  in  one 
bright  speck  shining  through  the  river  mists,  amid  the  ocean  of 
fires  of  a  vast  city,  and  feel  his  desires,  feelings,  intelligence,  and 
love  bounded  by  that  small  spark  which  scarce  outshines  the 
glow-worm  of  a  summer's  evening  !  How  often  have  I  thought 
so  as  I  paced  the  bridge,  muffled  in  my  cloak  !  How  often  have 
I  exclaimed,  as  I  gazed  at  that  oval  window  shining  in  the  dis- 
tance. Let  all  the  fires  of  earth  be  quenched,  let  all  the  lumin- 
ous globes  of  the  firmament  be  extinguished,  but  may  that  feeble 
light — the  mysterious  star  of  our  two  lives — shine  on  forever ; 
its  glimmering  would  illumine  courtless  worlds,  and  suffice  my 
eyes  through  all  eternity  ! 


RAPHAEL.  10S 


Alas  !  since  then  I  have  seen  this  star  of  my  youth  expire, 
this  burning  focus  of  my  eyes  and  heart  extinguished  !  I  have 
seen  the  shutters  of  the  window  closed  for  many  a  long  year  ou 
the  funereal  darkness  of  the  little  room.  One  year,  one  clay,  I 
saw  them  once  more  opened.  I  looked  to  see  who  dared  to 
live  where  she  had  lived  before ;  and  then  I  saw,  in  summer 
time,  at  that  same  window,  bathed  in  sunshine  and  adorned  with 
flowers,  a  young  woman  whom  I  did  not  know,  playing  and 
smiling  with  a  new-born  child ;  unconscious  that  she  played 
upon  a  grave,  that  her  smiles  were  turned  to  tears  in  the  eyes 
of  a  passer  by,  and  that  so  much  life  seemed  as  a  mockery  of 

death Since  then,  at  night,  I  have  returned  ;  and  every 

year  I  still  return,  approach  that  wall  with  faltering  steps,  and 
touch  that  door;  and  then  I  sit  on  the  stone  bench,  and  watch 
the  lights,  and  listen  to  the  voices  from  above.  I  sometimes 
fancy  that  I  see  the  light  reflected  from  her  lamp — that  I  hear 
the  tones  of  her  voice — that  I  can  knock  at  that  door — that  she 

expects  me— that  1  can  go  in O !  memory,  art  thou  a 

gift  from  Heaven !  or  pain  of  hell ! But  once 

more  I  must  resume  my  story. 

LXXII. — The  day  after  my  arrival,  Julie  had  introduced  me 
to  the  old  man,  who  was  to  her  a  father,  and  whose  latter  days 
she  brightened  with  the  radiance  of  her  mind,  her  tenderness, 
and  her  beauty.  He  received  me  as  a  son.  He  had  learned 
from  her  our  meeting  in  Savoy,  our  fraternal  attachment,  our 
daily  correspondence,  and  the  affinity  of  our  minds,  as  shown  by 
the  conformity  of  our  tastes,  ages,  and  feelings.  He  knew  the 
entire  purity  of  our  attachment,  and  felt  no  jealousy,  or  any 
anxiety,  save  for  the  life,  the  happiness,  and  reputation  of  his 
ward.  He  only  feared  she  might  have  been  attracted  and  de- 
ceived by  that  first  look,  which  is  sometimes  a  revelation,  and 
sometimes  a  delusion  of  the  young,  and  that  she  might  have  be- 
stowed her  heart  on  a  man  of  the  creation  of  her  fancy.  My 
letters,  from  which  she  had  read  him  several  passages,  had  some- 
what reassured  him,  but  it  was  only  from  rny  countenance  he 
could  learn  whether  they  were  an  artful  or  natural  expression 
of  my  feelings;  for  style  may  deceive,  but  countenance  never 
can. 

The  old  man  surveyed  me  with  that  anxious  attention  which 
is  often  concealed  under  an  appearance  of  momentary  abstrac- 
tion. But  as  he  saw  me  more,  and  questioned  me,  I  could  see 

K* 


106  RAPHAEL. 

his  starching  look  clear  up,  betray  an  inward  satisfaction,  soften 
gradually  into  one  of  confidence  and  good  will,  and  rest  upon 
me  with  that  security  and  caress  of  the  eye,  which,  though  a 
rnute,  is  perhaps  the  best  reception  at  a  first  interview.  My 
ardent  desire  to  please  him  ;  the  timidity  so  natural  to  a  young 
man,  who  feels  that  the  fate  of  his  heart  depends  on  the  judg- 
ment passed  upon  him  ;  the  fear  that  it  might  not  be  favorable  ; 
the  presence  of  Julie  which  disconcerted  though  it  encouraged 
me,  and  all  the  shades  of  thought  so  plainly  legible  in  my  mod- 
est attitude  and  my  flushed  cheeks,  spoke  in  my  favor  better 
than  I  could  have  done  myself.  The  old  man  took  my  hand 
with  a  paternal  gesture,  and  said,  "Compose  yourself,  and  con- 
sider that  you  have  two  friends  in  this  house  instead  of  one. 
Julie  could  not  have  better  chosen  a  brother,  and  I  would  not 
choose  another  son."  He  embraced  me,  and  we  talked  together 
as  if  he  had  known  me  from  my  childhood,  until  an  old  servant 
came  at  ten  o'clock,  according  to  his  invariable  custom,  to  give 
him  the  help  of  his  arm  on  the  stair,  and  lead  him  back  to  hia 
own  apartment. 

LXXIII. — His  was  a  beautiful  and  attractive  old  age,  to 
which  nothing  was  wanting  but  the  security  of  a  morrow.  It 
was  so  disinterested  and  paternal,  that  it  in  no  wise  offended  the 
eye,  though  associated  with  a  young  and  lovely  woman ;  it  was 
as  an  evening  shade  upon  the  bloom  of  morning;  but  one  felt 
that  it  was  a  protecting  shade,  sheltering,  but  not  withering  her 
youth,  beauty,  and  innocence.  The  features  of  this  celebrated 
man  were  regular  as  the  pure  outline  of  antique  profiles,  which 
time  emaciates  slightly,  but  can  not  impair.  His  blue  eye  had 
that  softened  but  penetrating  expression  of  worn-out  sight,  as  if 
they  looked  through  a  slight  haze.  There  was  an  arch  ex- 
pression of  implied  meaning  in  his  mouth  ;  and  his  smile  was 
playful  as  that  of  a  father  to  his  little  children.  His  hair,  which 
age  and  study  had  thinned,  was  soft  and  fine,  like  the  down  of 
a  swan.  His  hands  were  white  and  taper,  as  the  marble  hands 
of  the  statue  of  Seneca  taking  his  dying  leave  of  Paulina. 
There  were  no  wrinkles  on  his  face,  which  had  become  thin 
and  pale  from  the  long  labor  of  the  mind,  for  it  had  never  been 
plump.  A  few  blue  and  bloodless  veins  might  be  traced  on 
the  depressed  temples  ;  and  the  light  of  the  hearth  was  reflected 
on  the  forehead — that  latest  beauty  of  man,  which  thought 
chisels  and  polishes  unctasingly.  There  was  in  the  cheek  that 


K  A  PH  A  E  L.  101 

delicacy  of  skin — that  transparency  of  a  face  which  has  grown 
old  within  the  shade  of  walls,  and  which  neither  wind  nor  sun 
has  ever  tanned  ; — the  complexion  of  woman,  which  gives  an 
effeminacy  to  the  countenance  of  old  men,  and  the  ethereal, 
fragile,  and  impalpable  appearance  of  a  vision,  that  the  slight- 
est breath  might  dispel.  His  calm  and  well-weighed  expres- 
sions, naturally  set  in  clear,  concise,  and  lucid  phrase,  had  all 
the  precision  of  one  who  has  been  used  to  careful  selection  in 
clothing  his  thoughts  for  writing  or  dictation.  His  sentences 
were  interrupted  by  long  pauses,  as  if  to  allow  time  for  them 
to  penetrate  the  ear,  and  to  be  appreciated  by  the  mind  of  the 
listener :  he  relieved  them,  every  now  and  then,  by  graceful 
pleasantry,  never  degenerating  into  coarseness,  as  though  he 
purposely  upheld  the  conversation  on  these  light  and  sportive 
wings,  to  prevent  its  being  borne  down  by  the  weight  of  too 
continuous  ideas. 

LXXIV. — I  soon  learned  to  love  this  charming  and  talented 
old  man.  If  I  am  destined  to  attain  old  age,  I  should  wish  to 
<5row  old  like  him.  There  was  but  one  thing  grieved  me  as  I 
looked  at  him — it  was,  to  see  him  advancing  toward  Death, 
without  believing  in  Immortality.  The  natural  sciences  that  he 
had  so  deeply  studied,  had  accustomed  his  mind  to  trust  exclu- 
sively to  the  evidence  of  his  senses.  Nothing  existed  for  him 
that  was  not  palpable ;  what  could  not  be  calculated  contained 
no  element  of  certitude  in  his  eyes  ;  matter  and  figures  com- 
posed his  universe  ;  numbers  were  his  god  ;  the  phenomena  of 
nature  were  his  revelations ;  Nature  herself  his  Bible  and  his 
gospel ;  his  virtue  was  instinct — not  seeing  that  numbers,  phe- 
nomena, nature,  arid  virtue,  are  but  hieroglyphs  inscribed  on 
the  vail  of  the  temple,  whose  unanimous  meaning  is — Deity. 
Sublime  but  stubborn  minds,  who  wonderfully  ascend  the  steps 
of  science,  one  by  one, — but  will  never  pass  the  last,  which 
leads  to  God  ! 

LXXY. — This  second  father  very  soon  became  so  fond  of 
me,  that  he  proposed  to  give  me  occasionally,  in  his  library, 
some  lessons  in  those  elevated  sciences  which  had  rendered  him 
illustrious,  and  now  constituted  his  chief  relaxation.  I  went  to 
him  sometimes  in  the  morning ;  Julie  would  come  at  the  same 
hours.  It  was  a  rare  and  touching  spectacle  to  see  that  old 
man  seated  in  the  midst  of  his  books — a  monument  of  human 


108  RAPHAEL. 


learning  and  philosophy,  of  which  he  had  exhausted  all  the 
pages  during  his  long  life,  discovering  the  mysteries  of  nature 
and  of  thought  to  a  youth  who  stood  beside  him  ;  while  a 
woman,  young  and  lovely  as  that  ideal  Philosophy — that  loving 
Wisdom — the  Beatrix  of  the  poet  of  Florence — attended  as  his 
first  disciple,  and  was  the  fellow-learner  of  that  younger 
Irother.  She  brought  the  books,  turned  over  the  page,  and 
marked  the  chapters  with  her  extended  rosy  finger ;  she  moved 
amid  the  spheres,  the  globes,  the  instruments,  and  the  heaps  of 
volumes,  in  the  dust  of  human  knowledge  ;  and  seemed  the 
soul  of  Nature  disengaging  itself  from  matter,  to  kindle  it,  and 
teach  it  to  burn  and  love. 

I  learned  and  understood  more  in  a  few  days,  than  in  years 
of  dry  and  solitary  study  ;  but  the  frequent  infirmities  of  age  in 
the  master  too  often  interrupted  these  morning  lessons. 

LXXVI. — I  invariably  spent  a  part  of  my  night  in  the  com- 
pany of  her  who  was  to  me  both  night  and  day,  time  and  eter- 
nity. As  I  have  already  said,  I  always  arrived  when  importu- 
nate visitors  had  left  the  drawing-room.  Sometimes  I  remained 
long  hours  on  the  quay  or  on  the  bridge,  walking  or  standing 
still  by  turns,  and  waiting  in  vain  for  the  inside  shutter  to  open, 
and  to  give  the  mute  signal  on  which  we  had  agreed.  How 
have  I  watched  the  sluggish  waters  of  the  Seine  beneath  the 
arches  of  the  bridge,  bearing  away  in  their  course  the  trembling 
rays  of  the  moon,  or  the  reflected  light  of  the  windows  of  the 
city.  How  many  hours  and  half  hours  have  I  not  reckoned  as 
they  sounded  from  the  near  or  distant  churches,  and  cuised 
their  slowness  or  accused  their  speed !  I  know  the  tones  of 
every  brazen  voice  in  the  towers  of  Paris.  There  were  lucky 
and  unlucky  days.  Sometimes  I  went  in,  without  waiting  an 
instant,  and  only  found  her  husband  with  her,  who  spent  in 
lively  talk,  or  friendly  conversation,  the  hours  that  unbent  and 
prepared  him  for  sleep.  At  other  times,  I  only  met  one  or 
two  friends ;  they  dropped  in  for  a  short  time,  bringing  the 
news  or  the  excitement  of  the  day,  and  devoted  to  friendship 
the  first  hours  of  their  evening,  which  they  generally  concluded 
in  some  political  drawing-room.  These  were  in  general  parlia- 
mentary men,  eminent  orators  of  the  two  chambers — Suard, 
Bonald,  Mounier,  Reyneval,  Lally-Tolendal,  the  old  man 
with  the  youthful  mind,  and  Laine.  This  latter  was  the  most 
perfect  copy  of  ancient  eloquence  and  virtue  that  I  have  seen 


RAPHAEL.  109 

lo  venerate  in  modern  times  ;  he  was  a  Roman  in  heart,  in 
eloquence,  and  in  appearance,  and  wanted  but  the  toga,  to  be 
the  Cicero  or  the  Cato  of  his  day.  I  felt  peculiar  admiration 
and  tender  respect  for  this  personification  of  a  good  citizen  ; 
he,  in  his  turn,  took  notice  of  me,  and  often  distinguished  mo 
by  some  look  and  word  of  preference.  He  has  since  been  my 
master;  and  if  one  day  I  had  to  serve  my  country,  or  to  ascend 
a  tribune,  the  remembrance  of  his  patriotism  and  his  eloquence 
would  be  ever  present  to  me,  as  a  model  that  I  could  not  hope 
to  equal,  but  might  imitate  at  a  distance. 

These  men  came  round  the  little  work-table  in  turn,  whil  • 
Julie  sat  half  reclined  upon  the  sofa.  I  remained  silent  and 
respectful  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  far  from  her,  listening, 
reflecting,  admiring,  or  disapproving  inwardly,  but  scarcely 
opening  my  lips,  unless  questioned,  and  only  joining  in  the  con- 
versation by  a  few  timid  and  cautious  words  said  in  a  low  tone. 
With  a  strong  conviction  on  most  subjects,  I  have  always  felt 
an  extreme  shyness  in  expressing  it  before  such  men ;  they 
appeared  to  me  infinitely  my  superiors  from  age  and  in  au- 
thority. Respect  for  time,  for  genius,  and  for  fame,  is  a  part 
of  my  nature  ;  a  ray  of  glory  dazzles  me  ;  white  hairs  awe  me  ; 
an  illustrious  name  bows  me  voluntarily  before  it.  I  have  often 
lost  something  of  my  i-eal  value  by  this  timidity  ;  but  neverthe- 
less I  have  never  regretted  it.  The  consciousness  of  the  supe- 
riority of  others  is  a  good  feeling  in  youth,  as  at  all  ages,  for  it 
elevates  the  ideal  standard  to  wnich  we  aspire.  Self-confidence 
in  youth  is  an  overweening  insolence  toward  time  and  nature. 
If  the  feeling  of  the  superiority  of  others  is  a  delusion,  it  is  at 
least  a  delusion  which  raises  human  nature,  and  is  better  than 
that  which  lowers  it.  Alas !  we  but  too  soon  reduce  it  to  its 
true  but  sad  proportions  ! 

These  visitors  at  first  paid  little  attention  to  me.  I  used  to 
see  them  stoop  toward  Julie,  and  ask,  in  a  low  tone,  who  I 
was.  My  thoughtful  countenance,  and  my  immovable  and 
modest  attitude  seemed  to  surprise  and  please  them ;  insensibly 
they  drew  toward  me,  or  seemed  by  a  gracious  and  encourag- 
ing gesture  to  address  some  of  their  remarks  to  me.  It  was  an 
indirect  invitation  to  take  my  share  in  the  conversation.  I  said 
a  few  words  in  grateful  recognition ;  but  I  soon  relapsed  into 
my  silence  and  obscurity,  for  fear  of  prolonging  the  conversa- 
tion by  keeping  it  up.  I  considered  them  merely  as  the  frame 
of  a  picture ;  the  only  real  interest  I  felt  was  in  the  face,  the 


110  RAPHAEL. 

speech,  and  the  mind  of  her,  from  whom  I  was  shut  out  by 
their  presence. 

LXXVII. — What  nward  joy,  what  throbbing  of  the  heart, 
when  they  retired,  and  when  I  heard  beneath  the  gateway  the 
rolling  of  the  carriage  which  bore  away  the  last  of  them  !  We 
were  then  alone ;  the  night  was  far  advanced  ;  our  security 
increased  at  every  step  of  the  minute-hand,  as  it  approached 
the  figure  that  marked  midnight  on  the  dial.  Nothing  was  to 
be  heard  but  the  sound  of  a  few  cai'Hages,  which,  at  rare  inter- 
vals, rattled  over  the  stones  of  the  quay,  or  the  deep  breathing 
of  the  old  concierge,  who  was  stretched  sleeping  on  a  bench 
in  the  vestibule  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

We  would  first  look  at  each  other,  as  if  surprised  at  our  hap- 
piness. I  would  draw  nearer  to  the  table  where  Julie  worked 
by  the  light  of  the  lamp.  The  work  soon  fell  from  her  unheed- 
ing hands ; — our  looks  expanded,  our  lips  were  unsealed,  our 
hearts  overflowed  !  Our  choked  and  hurried  words,  like  the 
flow  of  water  impeded  by  too  narrow  an  opening,  were  at  first 
slowly  poured  forth,  and  the  torrent  of  our  thoughts  trickled 
out  drop  by  drop.  We  could  not  select,  among  the  many 
things  we  had  to  say,  those  we  most  wished  to  impart  to  each 
other.  Sometimes  there  was  a  long  silence,  caused  by  the 
confusion  and  excess  of  crowded  thoughts  which  accumulated 
in  our  hearts,  and  could  not  escape.  Then  they  began  to  flow 
slowly,  like  those  first  drops,  which  show  that  the  cloud  is  about 
to  dissolve  or  burst;  these  words  called  forth  others  in  response  ; 
one  voice  led  on  the  other,  as  a  falling  child  draws  his  com- 
panion with  him.  Our  words  mingled  without  order,  without 
answer,  and  without  connection ;  neither  of  us  would  yield  the 
happiness  of  outstripping  the  other  in  the  expression  of  one 
common  feeling.  Each  fancied  that  he  had  first  felt  what  he 
disclosed  of  our  thoughts  since  the  evening's  conversation,  or 
the  morning's  letter.  At  last,  this  tumultuous  overflow,  at 
which  we  laughed  and  blushed,  after  a  time  subsided,  and 
gave  place  to  a  calm  effusion  of  the  lips,  which  poured  forth 
together,  or  alternately,  the  plenitude  of  their  expressions.  It 
was  a  continuous  and  murmuring  transfusion  of  one  soul  into 
another — an  unreserved  interchange  of  our  two  natures — a 
complete  transmutation  of  one  into  another,  by  the  reciprocal 
communication  of  all  that  breathed,  or  lived,  or  burned  within 
us.  Never,  per'iaps,  did  two  beings  as  irreproachable  in  their 


RAPHAEL.  Ill 

looks,  or  in  their  very  thoughts,  bare  their  hearts  to  one  anothei 
more  unreservedly,  and  reveal  the  mysterious  depths  of  their 
feelings.  The  innocent  nudity  of  our  souls  was  chaste,  though 
unvailed,  as  light  that  discovers  all,  yet  sullies  nothing.  We 
had  naught  to  reveal,  but  the  spotless  love  which  purified  as  it 
consumed  us. 

Our  love,  by  its  very  purity,  was  incessantly  renewed,  with 
the  same  light  of  soul,  the  same  unsullied  transports  of  its  first 
bloom.  Each  day  was  like  the  first ;  every  instant  was  as  that 
ineffable  moment  when  we  felt  it  dawn  within  us,  and  saw  it 
reflected  in  the  heart  and  looks  of  another  self;  our  love  would 
always  preserve  its  flower  and  its  perfume,  for  the  fruit  could 
never  be  culled. 

LXXVIIT. — Of  all  the  different  means  by  which  God  has 
allowed  soul  to  communicate  with  soul,  through  the  trans- 
parent barrier  of  the  senses,  there  was  not  one  that  our  love 
did  not  employ  to  manifest  itself;  from  the  look  which  conveys 
most  of  ourselves  in  an  almost  ethereal  ray,  to  the  closed  lids, 
which  seem  to  enfold  within  us  the  image  we  have  received, 
that  it  may  not  evaporate ;  from  languor  to  delirium,  from  the 
sigh  to  the  loud  cry ;  from  the  long  silence  to  those  exhaustless 
words  which  flow  from  the  lips  without  pause,  and  without  end  ; 
which  stop  the  breath,  weary  the  tongue,  which  we  pronounce 
without  hearing  them,  and  which  have  no  other  meaning  than 
an  impotent  effort  to  say,  again  and  again,  what  can  never  b« 
said  enough  !  .  .  .  . 

Many  a  time  did  we  talk  thus  for  hours,  in  whispered  tones, 
leaning  on  the  little  table,  close  to  each  other,  without  perceiv- 
ing that  our  conversation,  had  lasted  more  than  the  space  of  a 
single  sigh;  quite  surprised  to  find  that  the  minutes  had  flown 
as  swiftly  as  our  words,  and  that  the  clock  struck  the  inexora- 
ble hour  of  parting. 

Sometimes  there  would  be  interrogations  and  answers,  as  to 
our  most  fugitive  shades  of  thought  and  nature,  dialogues  in 
almost  unheard  whispers,  articulate  sighs,  rather  than  audible 
words,  blushing  confessions  of  our  most  secret  inward  repinings, 
joyful  exclamations  of  surprise  at  discovering  in  us  both  the 
same  impressions  reflected  from  one  another,  as  light  in  rever- 
beration, the  blow  in  the  counterblow,  the  form  in  the  image. 
We  woulJ  exclaim,  rising  by  a  simultaneous  impulse — we  are 
not  two  !  we  are  one  single  being  under  two  illusive  natures — 


112  RAPHAEL. 

which  will  say  you  unto  the  other  !   which  will  say  I  ]     There  is 

no  I — there  is  no  you — but  only  we We  would  then  sink 

down,  overcome  with  admiration  at  this  wonderful  conformity : 
weeping  with  delight  at  this  twofold  existence,  and  at  having 
doubled  our  lives  by  consecrating  them  to  each  other. 

LXXIX. — Most  generally,  we  used  to  travel  back  over  the 
past,  step  by  step,  arid  recall  with  scrupulous  minuteness  every 
place,  circumstance,  and  hour,  which  had  brought  on,  or  marked 
the  beginning  of  our  love  :  like  some  young  girl  who  has  scat- 
tered by  the  way  the  unstrung  pearls  of  her  precious  necklace, 
and  returns  upon  her  steps,  her  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground,  to 
find  and  gather  them  up,  one  by  one.  We  would  not  lose  the 
recollection  of  one  of  those  places,  or  one  of  those  hours,  for  fear 
of  losing  at  the  same  time  the  hoarded  memory  of  a  single  joy. 
We  remembered  the  mountains  of  Savoy,  the  valley  of  Cham- 
bery,  the  torrents  and  the  lake ;  the  mossy  ground,  sometimes 
in  shade  and  sometimes  dappled  with  light,  beneath  the  out- 
stretched arms  of  the  chestnut  trees ;  the  rays  between  the 
branches,  the  glimpse  of  sky  through  the  leafy  dome  above 
our  heads,  the  blue  expanse  and  the  white  sails  at  our  feet ;  our 
first  unsought  meetings  in  the  mountain  paths,  our  mutual  con- 
jectures, our  encounters  on  the  lake  before  we  knew  each  other, 
sailing  in  our  boats  in  contrary  directions ;  her  dark  hair  waving 
in  the  wind,  my  indifferent  attitude ;  our  looks  averted  from  the 
crowd  ;  the  double  enigma  that  we  were  to  each  other,  of  which 
the  answer  was  to  be  eternal  love  ;  then  the  fatal  day  of  the 
tempest,  and  her  fainting ;  the  mournful  night  of  prayers  and 
tears  ;  the  waking  in  heaven  ;  our  return  together  by  moonlight 
through  the  avenue  of  poplars,  her  hand  in  mine,  her  warm  tears 
which  my  lips  had  drunk,  the  first  words  in  which  our  souls  had 
spoken  ;  our  joys,  our  parting — we  remembered  all ! 

We  never  wearied  of  these  details.  It  was  as  though  we 
had  related  some  story  which  was  not  our  own.  But  what 
was  there  henceforward  in  the  universe  save  ourselves  1  Oh ! 
inexhaustible  curiosity  of  love,  thou  art  riot  only  a  childish  de- 
light of  the  hour,  thou  art  love  itself,  which  never  tires  of  con- 
templating what  it  possesses,  treasures  up  every  impression, 
each  hair,  each  thrill,  each  blush,  each  sigh  of  the  loved  one, 
as  a  reason  for  loving  more,  as  a  means  of  feeding  anew  with 
each  memory  the  flame  of  enthusiasm,  in  which  it  joys  to  be 
consumed. 


RAPHAEL.  113 

LXXX.  Julie's  tears  would  sometimes  suddenly  flow  from  a 
strange  sadness.  She  knew  me  condemned,  by  this  concealed 
though  to  us  ever  present  death,  to  behold  in  her  but  a  phan- 
tom of  happiness,  which  would  vanish  ere  I  could  press  it  to  my 
heart.  She  grieved  and  accused  herself  for  having  inspired  me 
with  a  passion  which  could  never  bring  me  joy.  "  Oh  !  that  I 
could  die,  die  soon,  die  young,  and  still  beloved,"  would  she 
say.  "  Yes ;  die,  as  I  can  be  to  you  but  the  bitter  delusion  of 
love  and  joy ;  at  once  your  rapture  and  your  woe.  Ah  !  the 
divinest  joys  and  the  most  cruel  anguish  are  mingled  in  my  des- 
tiny !  Oh,  that  love  would  kill  me  ;  and  that  you  might  survive 
to  love  after  me,  as  your  nature  and  your  heart  should  love. 
In  dying,  I  shall  be  less  wretched  than  I  am  while  feeling  that  I 
live  by  your  sacrifices,  and  doom  your  youth  and  your  love  to 
a  perpetual  death  ! 

"Oh!  blaspheme  not  against  such  ineffable  joy,"  I  exclaimed, 
placing  my  trembling  hands  beneath  her  eyes  to  receive  her  fast 
dropping  tears.  "  What  base  idea  have  you  conceived  of  him 
whom  God  has  thought  worthy  to  meet,  to  understand,  and  to 
love  you  1  Are  there  not  more  oceans  of  tenderness  and  love 
in  this  tear  which  falls  warm  from  your  heart,  and  which  I  carry 
to  my  lips,  as  the  life's  blood  of  our  tortured  love,  than  in  the 
thousand  sated  desires  and  guilty  pleasures  in  which  are  ingulfed 
such  vile  attachments  as  you  regret  for  me  ]  Have  I  ever 
seemed  to  you  to  desire  aught  else  than  this  twofold  suffering? 
Does  it  not  make  of  us  both  voluntary  and  pure  victims  1  Is  it 
not  an  eternal  holocaust  of  love,  such  as  from  Heloise  to  us,  the 
angels  can  scarce  have  witnessed  ]  Have  I  ever  once  re- 
proached the  Almighty  even  in  the  madness  of  my  solitary 
nights,  for  having  raised  me  by  you,  and  for  you,  above  the 
condition  of  man  1  He  has  given  me  in  you,  not  a  woman  to 
be  polluted  by  the  embrace  of  these  mortal  arms,  but  an  im- 
palpable and  sacred  incarnation  of  immaterial  beauty.  Does 
not  the  celestial  fire,  which  night  and  day  burns  so  rapturously 
within  me,  consume  all  dross  of  vulgar  desire  1  Am  I  aught 
but  flame  ]  A  flame  as  pure  and  holy  as  the  rays  of  your  soul, 
which  first  kindled  it,  and  now  feed  it  unceasingly  through  your 
beaming  eye  !  Ah,  Julie,  estimate  yourself  more  worthily,  and 
weep  not  over  sorrows  which  you  imagine  you  inflict  on  me  ! 
I  do  not  suffer.  My  life  is  one  perpetual  overflow  of  happiness, 
filled  by  you  alone — a  repose  of  sense — a  sleep  of  which  you 
are  the  dream.  You  have  transformed  my  nature.  I  suffer! 


114  RAPHAEL. 

Oh  !  would  that  I  could  sometimes  suffer,  that  I  might  have 
somewhat  to  offer  unto  God,  were  it  but  the  consciousness  of  a 
privation,  the  bitterness  of  a  tear,  in  return  for  all  He  has  given 
me  in  you.  To  suffer  for  you,  might,  perchance,  be  the  only 
thing  which  could  add  one  drop  to  that  cup  of  happiness  which 
't  is  given  me  to  quaff.  To  suffer  thus,  is  it  to  suffer,  or  to 
enjoy  1  No;  thus  to  live,  is,  in  truth,  to  die;  but  it  is  to  die 
some  years  earlier  to  this  wretched  life,  to  live  beforehand  of 
the  life  of  Heaven. 

LXXXI. — She  believed  it,  and  1  myself  believed  it,  as  ± 
spoke,  and  raised  my  hands  imploringly  toward  her.  We  would 
part  after  such  converse  as  this,  each  preserving,  to  feed  on  it 
separately  till  the  morrow,  the  impression  of  the  last  look,  the 
echo  of  the  last  tone,  that  were  to  give  us  patience  to  live 
through  the  long,  tedious  day.  When  I  had  crossed  the  thresh- 
old, I  would  see  her  open  her  window,  lean  forth  amidst  her 
flowers  on  the  iron  bar  of  the  balcony,  and  follow  my  receding 
figure  as  long  as  the  misty  vapors  of  the  Seine  allowed  her  to 
discern  it  on  the  bridge.  Again,  and  again,  would  1  turn  to 
send  back  a  sigh  and  a  lingering  look,  and  strive  to  tear  away 
my  soul,  which  would  not  be  parted  from  her.  It  seemed  as  if 
my  very  being  were  riven  asunder ;  my  spirit  to  return  and 
dwell  with  her,  while  my  body  alone,  as  a  mere  machine, 
slowly  wended  its  way  through  the  dark  and  deserted  streets  to 
the  door  of  the  hotel  where  I  dwelt. 

LXXXII. — Thus  passed  away,  without  other  change  than 
that  afforded  by  my  studies,  and  our  ever-varying  impressions, 
the  delightful  months  of  winter.  They  were  drawing  to  a  close. 
The  early  splendors  of  spring  already  began  to  glance  fitfully 
from  the  roofs  upon  the  damp  and  gloomy  wilderness  of  the 
streets  of  Paris.  My  friend  V  *  *  *,  recalled  by  his  mother, 
was  gone,  and  had  left  me  alone  in  the  little  room  where  he 
had  harbored  me  during  my  stay.  He  was  to  return  in  the 
autumn,  and  had  paid  for  the  lodging  for  a  whole  year,  so  that, 
though  absent,  he  still  extended  to  me  his  brotherly  hospitality. 
It  was  with  sorrow  I  saw  him  depart ;  none  remained  to  whom 
I  could  speak  of  Julie.  The  burthen  of  my  feelings  would  now 
be  doubly  heavy,  when  I  could  no  longer  relieve  myself  by  rest- 
ing it  on  the  heart  of  another;  but  it  was  a  weight  of  happiness 
— I  could  still  uphold  it;  it  was  soon  to  become  a  load  of 


R  API!  A  El,.  115 

anguish,  which  I  could  confide  to  no  living  being,  and  least  of 
all  to  her  whom  I  loved. 

My  mother  wrote  me,  that  straitened  means,  caused  by 
unexpected  reverses  of  fortune,  which  had  fallen  on  my  father 
in  quick  and  harsh  succession,  had  reduced  to  comparative  in- 
digence our  once  open  and  hospitable  paternal  home,  obliging 
my  poor  father  to  withhold  the  half  of  my  allowance,  to  enable 
him  to  meet,  and  that  only  with  much  difficulty,  the  expense  of 
maintaining  and  educating  six  other  children.  It  was  therefore 
incumbent  upon  me,  she  said,  either  by  my  own  unaided  efforts 
to  maintain  myself  honorably  in  Paris,  or  to  return  home  and 
live  with  resignation  in  the  country,  sharing  the  common  pit- 
tance of  all.  My  mother's  tenderness  sought  beforehand  to 
comfort  me.  under  this  sad  necessity;  she  dwelt  on  the  joy  it 
would  be  to  her  to  see  me  again,  and  placed  before  me,  in 
most  attractive  colors,  the  prospect  of  the  labors  and  simple 
pleasures  of  a  rural  life.  On  the  other  hand,  some  of  the  asso- 
ciates of  my  early  years  of  gambling  and  dissipation,  who  had 
now  fallen  into  poverty,  having  met  me  in  Paris,  reminded  me 
of  sundry  trifling  obligations  which  I  had  contracted  toward 
them,  and  begged  me  to  come  to  their  assistance.  They  stripped 
me  thus,  by  degrees,  of  the  greater  part  of  that  little  hoard 
which  I  had  saved  by  strict  economy,  to  enable  me  to  live 
longer  in  Paris.  My  purse  was  well-nigh  empty,  and  I  began 
to  think  of  courting  fortune  through  fame.  One  morning,  after 
a  desperate  struggle  between  timidity  and  love,  love  triumphed. 
I  concealed  beneath  my  coat  my  small  manuscript,  bound  in 
green,  containing  my  verses,  my  last  hope ;  and  though  waver- 
ing and  uncertain  in  my  design,  I  turned  my  steps  toward  the 
house  of  a  celebrated  publisher,  whose  name  is  associated  with 
the  progress  of  literature  and  typography  in  France,  Monsieur 
Didot.  I  was  first  attracted  to  this  name  because  M.  Didot, 
independently  of  his  celebrity  as  a  publisher,  enjoyed  at  that 
time  some  reputation  as  an  author.  He  had  published  his  own 
verses  with  all  the  elegance,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  a  poet 
who  could  himself  control  the  approving  voice  of  Fame. 

When  before  M.  Didot's  door,  in  the  Rue  Jacob,  a  door  all 
papered  with  illustrious  names,  a  redoubled  effort  on  my  part 
was  required  to  cross  the  threshold,  another  to  ascend  the 
stairs,  another  still  more  violent  to  ring  at  his  door.  But  I  saw 
the  adored  image  of  Julie  encouraging  me,  and  her  hand  im- 
pelled me.  I  dared  do  any  thing. 


110  RAPHAEL.  . 

I  was  politely  received  by  M.  DLiot,  a  middle-aged  man, 
with  a  precise  and  commercial  air,  whose  speech  was  brief  and 
plain,  as  that  of  a  man  who  knows  the  value  of  minutes.  He 
desired  to  know  what  I  had  to  say  to  him.  I  stammered  for 
some  time,  and  became  embarrassed  in  one  of  those  labyrinths 
of  ambiguous  phrases,  under  which  one  conceals  thoughts  that 
will,  and  will  not  come  to  the  point.  I  thought  to  gain  courage 
by  gaining  time ;  at  last,  I  unbuttoned  my  coat,  drew  out  the 
little  volume,  and  presented  it  humb  y,  with  a  trembling  hand, 
to  M.  Didot.  I  told  him  that  1  had  written  these  verses,  and 
wished  to  have  them  published  ;  not,  indeed,  to  bring  me  fame 
(I  had  not  that  absurd  delusion),  but  in  the  hopes  of  attracting 
the  notice  and  good-will  of  influential  literary  men ;  that  my 
poverty  would  not  permit  of  my  going  to  the  expense  of  print- 
ing; and,  therefore,  I  came  to  submit  my  work  to  him,  and  re- 
quest him  to  publish  it,  should  he,  after  looking  over  it,  deem 
it  worthy  of  the  indulgence  or  favor  of  cultivated  minds.  M. 
Didot  nodded,  smiled  kindly  but  somewhat  ironically,  took  my 
manuscript  between  two  fingers,  which  seemed  accustomed  to 
crumple  paper  contemptuously,  and  putting  down  my  verses 
on  the  table,  appointed  me  to  return  in  a  week,  for  an  answer 
as  to  the  object  of  my  visit.  I  took  my  leave.  The  next  seven 
days  appeared  to  me  seven  centuries.  My  future  prospects, 
my  favor,  my  mother's  consolation  or  despair,  my  love — in  a 
word,  my  life  or  death,  were  in  the  hands  of  M.  Didot.  At 
times,  I  pictured  him  to  myself  reading  my  verses  with  the 
same  rapture  that  had  inspired  me  on  my  mountains,  or  on  the 
brink  of  my  native  torrents  ;  I  fancied  he  saw  in  them  the  dew 
of  my  heart,  the  tears  of  my  eyes,  the  blood  of  my  young 
veins ;  that  he  called  together  his  literary  friends  to  listen  to 
them,  and  that  I  heard  from  my  alcove  the  sound  of  their 
applause.  At  others,  I  blushed  to  think  I  had  exposed  to  the 
inspection  of  a  stranger  a  work  so  unworthy  of  seeing  the 
light ;  that  I  had  discovered  my  weakness  and  my  impotence  in 
a  vain  hope  of  success,  which  would  be  changed  into  humiliation, 
instead  of  being  converted  into  gold  and  joy  within  my  grasp. 
Hope,  however,  as  persevering  as  my  distress,  often  got  the 
upper  hand  in  my  dreams,  and  led  me  on  from  hour  to  hour, 
until  the  day  appointed  by  M.  Didot. 

L  XXXIII. — My  heart  failed  as,  on  the  eighth  day,  I  ascended 
his  stairs.  I  remained  a  long  while  standing  on  the  landing- 


RAPHAEL.  117 

place  at  his  door,  without  daring  to  ring.  At  last,  some  one 
came  out,  the  door  was  opened,  and  I  was  obliged  to  go  in. 
M.  Didot's  face  was  as  unexpressive,  and  as  ambiguous  as  an 
oracle.  He  requested  me  to  be  seated,  and  while  looking  for 
my  manuscript,  which  was  buiied  beneath  heaps  of  papers:  "I 
have  read  your  verses,  sir,"  he  said  ;  "  there  is  some  talent  in 
them,  but  no  study.  They  are  unlike  all  that  is  received  and 
appreciated  in  our  poets.  It  is  difficult  to  see  whence  you 
have  derived  the  language,  ideas,  and  imagery  of  your  poetry, 
which  can  not  be  classed  in  any  definite  style.  It  is  a  pity,  for 
there  is  no  want  of  harmony.  You  must  renounce  these  novel- 
ties which  would  lead  astray  our  national  genius.  Read  our 
masters — Delille,  Parny,  Michaud,  Reynouard,  Luce  de  Lanci- 
val,  Fontanes ;  these  are  the  poets  that  the  public  loves.  You 
must  resemble  some  one,  if  you  wish  to  be  recognized,  and  to 
be  read.  I  should  advise  you  ill,  if  I  induced  you  to  publish 
this  volume,  and  I  should  be  doing  you  a  sorry  service,  in  pub- 
lishing it  at  my  expense."  So  saying,  he  rose,  and  gave  me 
back  my  manuscript.  I  did  not  attempt  to  contest  the  point 
with  Fate,  which  spoke  in  the  voice  of  the  oracle.  I  took  up 
the  volume,  thanked  M.  Didot,  and  offering  some  excuse  for 
having  trespassed  on  his  time,  I  went  down  stairs,  my  legs 
trembling  beneath  me,  and  my  eyes  moistened  with  tears. 

Ah !  if  M.  Didot,  who  was  a  kind  and  feeling  man,  a  patron 
of  letters,  could  have  read  in  my  heart,  and  have  understood 
that  it  was  neither  fame  nor  fortune  that  the  unknown  youth 
came  to  beg,  with  his  book  in  his  hand — that  it  was  life  and 
love  I  sued  for,  I  am  sure  he  would  have  printed  my  volume. 
He  would  have  been  repaid  in  Heaven,  at  least. 

L XXXIV. — I  returned  to  my  room  in  despair.  The  child 
and  the  dog  wondered,  for  the  first  time,  at  my  sullen  silence, 
and  at  the  gloom  that  overspread  my  countenance.  I  lighted 
the  stove,  and  threw  in,  sheet  by  sheet,  my  whole  volume,  with- 
out sparing  a  single  page.  "  Since  thou  canst  not  purchase  for 
me  a  single  day  of  life  and  love,"  I  exclaimed,  as  1  watched  it 
burning,  "  what  care  I  if  the  immortality  of  my  name  be  con- 
sumed with  thee  1  Love,  not  fame,  is  my  immortality." 

That  same  evening,  I  went  out  at  nightfall.  I  sold  my  poor 
mother's  diamond.  Till  then,  I  had  kept  it  in  the  hope  that  my 
verses  might  have  redeemed  its  value,  and  that  I  might  pre- 
serve it  untouched.  As  I  handed  it  to  the  jeweler,  I  kissed  it 


118  RAPHAEL. 

by  stealth,  and  wet  it  with  my  tears.  Ho  seemed  affected  him- 
self, and  felt  convinced  that  the  diamond  was  honestly  mine,  by 
the  grief  I  testified  in  disposing  of  it.  The  thirty  louis  ho  gave 
me  for  it  fell  from  my  hands  as  I  reckoned  them,  as  if  the  gold 
had  been  the  price  of  a  sacrilege.  Oh  !  how  many  diamonds, 
twenty  times  superior  in  price,  would  I  not  often  have  given 
since,  to  repurchase  that  same  diamond,  unique  in  my  eyes !  a 
fragment  of  my  mother's  heart !  one  of  the  last  tear-drops  from 

her  eye  !  the  light  of  her  love  ! On  what  hand  does  it 

sparkle  now  1 

LXXXV. — Spring  had  returned.  The  Tuileries  cast  each 
morning  upon  their  idlers  the  green  shade  of  their  leaves,  and 
showered  down  the  fragrant  snow  of  their  horse-chestnut  trees. 
From  the  bridges,  I  could  perceive  beyond  the  stony  horizon 
of  Chaillot  and  Passy,  the  long  line  of  verdant  and  undulating 
hills  of  Fleury,  Meudon,  and  Saint  Cloud.  These  hills  seemed 
to  rise  as  cool  and  solitary  islands  in  the  midst  of  a  chalky 
ocean.  They  raised  in  my  heart  feelings  of  remorse  and  poig- 
nant reproach,  and  were  images  and  remembrances  which  awaked 
the  craving  after  nature  that  had  lain  dormant  for  six  months. 
The  broken  rays  of  moonlight  floated  at  night  upon  the  tepid 
waters  of  the  river,  and  the  dreamy  orb  opened,  as  far  as  the 
Seine  could  be  ti'aced,  luminous  and  fantastic  vistas,  where  the 
eye  lost  itself  in  landscapes  of  shade  and  vapor.  Involuntarily, 
the  soul  followed  the  eye.  The  front  of  the  shops,  the  balconies, 
and  the  windows  of  the  quays,  were  covered  with  vases  of  flow- 
ers, which  shed  forth  their  perfume  even  on  the  passers-by.  At 
the  corners  of  the  streets,  or  the  ends  of  the  bridges,  the  flower- 
girls,  seated  behind  screens  of  flowering  plants,  waved  branches 
of  lilac,  as  if  to  embalm  the  town.  In  Julie's  room,  the  hearth 
was  converted  into  a  mossy  grotto;  the  consoles  and  tables  had 
each  their  vases  of  primroses,  violets,  lilies  of  the  valley,  and 
roses.  Poor  flowers,  exiles  from  the  fields  !  Thus,  swallows 
who  have  heedlessly  flown  into  a  room,  bruise  their  own  wings 
against  the  walls,  while  announcing  ID  the  poor  inhabitants  of 
dismal  garrets,  the  approach  of  April  and  its  sunny  days.  The 
perfume  of  the  flowers  penetrated  to  our  hearts,  and  our 
thoughts  were  brought  back,  under  the  impression  of  their 
fragrance,  and  the  images  it  evoked,  to  that  Nature  in  the 
midst  of  which  we  had  been  so  isolated  and  so  happy.  Wo 
had  forgotten  her  while  the  days  were  dark,  the  sky  gloomy, 


RAPHAEL.  119 

and  the  horizon  bounded.  Shut  up  in  a  small  room.,  where  we 
were  all  in  all  to  each  other,  we  never  thought  that  there  was 
another  sky,  another  sun,  another  nature  beyond  our  own. 
These  fine,  sunny  days,  glimpses  of  which  we  caught  from 
among  the  roofs  of  an  immense  city,  recalled  them  to  our  minds. 
They  agitated  and  saddened  us;  they  inspired  us  with  an  invin- 
cible desire  to  contemplate  and  enjoy  them  in  the  forests  and 
solitudes  which  surround  Paris.  It  seemed  to  us,  while  indulg- 
ing these  irresistible  longings,  and  projecting  distant  walks  to- 
gether in  the  woods  of  Fontainebleau,  Vincennes,  St.  Germain, 
and  Versailles,  that  we  should  be  again,  as  it  were,  amid  the 
woods  and  waters  of  our  Alpine  valleys,  that,  at  least,  we 
should  see  the  same  sun  and  the  same  shade,  and  recognize  the 
harmonious  sighing  of  the  same  winds  in  the  branches. 

Spring,  which  was  restoring  to  the  sky  its  transparency  and 
to  the  plants  their  sap,  seemed  also  to  give  new  youth  and 
pulsation  to  Julie's  heart.  The  tint  upon  her  cheeks  was 
brighter ;  her  eyes  more  blue,  their  rays  more  penetrating. 
There  was  more  emotion  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  ;  the  languor 
of  her  frame  was  relieved  by  more  frequent  sighs :  there  was 
more  elasticity  in  her  walk,  more  youthfulness  in  her  attitudes ; 
even  in  the  stillness  of  her  chamber,  a  pleasant  though  feverish 
agitation  produced  a  petulant  moving  of  her  feet,  and  sent  the 
words  more  hurriedly  to  her  lips.  In  the  evening,  Julie  would 
undraw  the  curtains,  and  frequently  lean  forth  from  her  window 
to  watch  the  pale  moonbeams,  and  inhale  the  freshness  of  the 
watei-,  and  the  breath  of  the  fragrant  breeze  which  swept 
along  the  valley  of  Meudon,  and  was  wafted  even  into  the 
apartments  on  the  quay.  . 

"  Oh  !  let  us  give,"  said  I,  "  a  joyous  holiday  to  our  hearts 
amid  all  our  happiness!  Of  all  God's  creatures  for  whom  He 
reanimates  his  earth  and  his  heavens,  let  not  us,  the  most  feel- 
ing and  the  most  grateful,  be  the  only  beings  for  whom  they 
shall  have  been  reanimated  in  vain.  Let  us  together  dive  into 
that  air,  that  light,  that  verdure  ;  amid  those  sprouting  branch- 
es, in  the  flood  of  life  and  vegetation,  which  is  even  now  inun- 
dating the  whole  earth  !  Let  us  go,  let  us  see,  if  naught  in  the 
works  of  His  creation  has  grown  old  by  the  weight  of  an  added 
day ;  if  naught  in  that  enthusiasm,  which  sang  and  groaned, 
loved  and  lamented  within  us,  on  the  mountains  and  on  the 
waters  of  Savoy,  has  been  lowered  by  one  ripple  or  one  note!" 
-  •"  Yes  !  let  us  go,"  said  she  ;  "  we  si  all  neither  feel  more,  nor 


120  RAPHAEL. 

love  better,  nor  bless  otherwise,  but  we  shall  have  rrade  another 
sky  and  another  spot  of  earth  witness  the  happiness  of  two  poor 
mortals.  That  temple  of  our  love  which  was  in  our  loved 
mountains  only,  will  then  be  wherever  I  shall  have  wandered 
and  breathed  with  you."  The  old  man  encouraged  these  excur- 
sions to  the  fine  forests  around  Paris.  He  hoped,  and  the  doc- 
tors led  him  to  expect,  that  the  air  laden  with  life,  the  influence 
of  the  sun,  which  strengthens  all  things,  with  moderate  exercise 
in  the  open  fields,  might  invigorate  the  too  sensitive  delicacy  of 
Julie's  nerves,  and  give  elasticity  to  her  heart.  Every  sunny 
day,  during  the  five  weeks  of  early  spring,  I  came  at  noon  to 
fetch  her.  We  entered  a  close  carriage  in  order  to  avoid  the 
inquisitive  looks  and  light  observations  of  any  of  her  acquaint- 
ances whom  we  might  chance  to  meet,  or  the  remarks  that 
even  strangers  might  have  made  on  seeing  so  young  and  lovely 
a  woman  alone  with  a  man  of  my  age;  for  we  were  not  suffi- 
ciently alike  to  pass  for  brother  and  sister.  We  left  the  car- 
riage on  the  skirts  of  the  woods,  at  the  foot  of  the  hills,  or  at 
the  gates  of  the  parks  in  the  environs  of  Paris,  and  sought  out 
at  Fleury,  at  Meudon,  at  Sevres,  at  Satory,  and  at  Vincennes, 
the  longest  and  most  solitary  paths,  carpeted  with  turf  and 
flowers,  untrodden  by  horses'  hoofs,  except,  perhaps,  on  the  day 
of  a  royal  hunt.  We  never  met  any  one,  save  a  few  children 
or  poor  women  busy  with  their  knives  digging  up  endive. 
Occasionally  a  startled  doe  would  rustle  through  the  leaves, 
and  springing  across  the  path,  after  a  glance  at  us,  dive  into 
the  thicket.  We  walked  in  silence,  sometimes  preceding  each 
other,  sometimes  arm  in  arm,  or  we  talked  of  the  future,  of  the  de- 
light it  would  be  to  possess  one,  out  of  all  these  untenanted  acres, 
with  a  keeper's  lodge  under  one  of  the  old  oaks.  We  dreamed 
aloud.  We  picked  violets  and  the  wild  periwinkle,  which  we 
interchanged  as  hieroglyphics,  and  preserved  in  the  smooth  leaves 
of  the  hellebore.  To  each  of  these  flowery  letters  we  linked  a 
meaning,  a  remembrance,  a  look,  a  sigh,  a  prayer.  We  kept 
them  to  reperuse  when  parted;  they  were  destined  to  recall 
each  precious  moment  of  these  blissful  hours. 

We  often  sat  in  the  shade  by  the  side  of  the  path,  and  opened 
a  book  which  we  tried  to  read  ;  but  we  could  never  turn  the 
first  leaf,  and  ever  preferred  reading  in  ourselves  the  inexhaust- 
ible pages  of  our  own  feelings.  I  went  to  fetch  milk  and  brown 
bread  from  some  neighboring  farm;  we  ate,  seated  on  the  grass, 
throwing  the  remains  of  the  cup  to  the  ants,  and  the  crumbs  of 


RAPHAEL.  121 

bread  to  the  birds.  At  sunset  we  returned  to  the  tumultuous 
ocean  of  Paris,  the  noise  and  crowd  of  which  jarred  upon  our 
hearts.  I  left  Julie,  excited  by  the  enjoyment  of  the  day,  at 
her  own  door,  and  then  went  back,  overcome  with  happiness, 
to  my  solitary  room,  the  walls  of  which  I  would  strike  and  bid 
them  crumble,  that  I  might  be  restored  to  the  light,  nature,  and 
love,  which  they  shut  out.  I  dined  without  relish,  read  without 
understanding ;  I  lighted  my  lamp  and  waited,  reckoning  the 
hours  as  they  passed,  till  the  evening  was  far  enough  advanced 
for  me  to  venture  again  to  her  door,  and  renew  the  enjoyment 
of  the  morning. 

LXXXVI. — The  next  day  we  recommenced  our  wanderings. 
Ah !  in  those  forests,  how  many  trees,  marked  by  my  knife, 
bear  on  their  roots  or  bark  a  sign  by  which  I  shall  ever  recog- 
nize them !  They  are  those  whose  shade  she  enjoyed  ;  those 
beneath  which  she  had  breathed  new  life,  had  basked  in  the 
warmth  of  the  sun,  or  inhaled  the  sweet  vernal  scent  of  the  trees ! 
The  stranger  sees,  but  dreams  not,  that  they  are  to  another  the 
pillars  of  a  temple,  whose  worshiper  is  on  earth  though  its 
divinity  is  in  Heaven !  I  still  visit  them  once  or  twice  each 
spring,  on  the  anniversaries  of  these  walks ;  and  when  the  ax 
lays  one  low,  it  seems  to  me  as  though  it  falls  upon  myself,  and 
carries  away  a  portion  of  my  heart. 

LXXXVII. — On  one  of  the  highest  and  most  generally 
solitary  summits  of  the  park  of  St.  Cloud,  where  the  rounded 
hill  descends  in  two  separate  slopes,  one  toward  the  valley  of 
Sevres,  and  the  other  toward  the  hollow  where  the  chateau 
stands,  there  is  an  open  space,  where  three  long  avenues  meet. 
From  thence  the  eye  discovers  from  afar  the  rare  passengers 
that  intrude  on  the  solitude  of  the  place.  The  hill,  like  a 
promontory,  overlooks  the  plain  of  Issy,  the  course  of  the  Seine, 
and  the  road  to  Versailles;  its  summit,  clothed  and  overshaded 
by  the  forest  which  fills  up  the  triangular  intervals  between  the 
three  avenues,  appears  like  the  rounded  basin  of  a  lake  of 
which  grass  and  foliage  are  the  billows.  If  one  looks  toward 
Sevres,  one  sees  only  a  long  and  sloping  meadow  stretching 
down  toward  the  river  like  a  verdant  and  undulating  cascade, 
which,  after  a  rapid  descent,  loses  itself  at  the  bottom  of  the 
valley  in  dark  masses  of  thickets  stocked  with  deer.  Beyond 
these  thickets,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine,  the  blue  slated 

F 


122  RAPHAEL. 

roofs  of  Meudon,  and  the  waving  tops  of  the  majestic  trees  of 
its  park,  stand  out  in  the  blue  summer  sky.  We  often  came  to 
sit  on  this  hill,  which  has  all  the  elevation  of  a  promontory,  the 
silence  and  shade  of  a  valley,  and  the  solitude  of  a  deseit.  The 
lungs  play  freer  there;  the  ear  is  less  disturbed  by  the  sounds 
of  earth  ;  the  soul  can  better  wing  its  flight  beyond  the  horizon 
of  this  life. 

We  went  there  one  morning  early  in  May,  at  the  hour  when 
the  forest  is  peopled  only  by  the  deer,  which  bound  and  skip  in 
its  lonely  paths.  Now  and  then,  a  gamekeeper  crosses  the 
extremity  of  one  of  the  avenues,  like  a  black  speck  on  the 
horizon.  We  sat  down  under  the  seventh  tree  of  the  semi-circle 
round  the  open  space,  looking  toward  the  meadows  of  Sevres. 
Centuries  have  been  required  to  frame  that  sturdy  oak,  and  to 
bend  its  gnarled  branches ;  its  roots,  swelling  with  sap  to 
nourish  and  support  its  trunk,  have  burst  through  the  sod  at  its 
feet,  and  form  a  moss-covered  seat,  of  which  the  oak  is  the  back, 
and  its  lower  leaves  the  natural  canopy.  The  morning  was  as 
serene  and  transparent  as  the  waters  of  the  sea  at  sunrise,  under 
the  green  headlands  of  the  Islands  of  the  Archipelago.  The 
ardent  rays  of  an  almost  summer  sun  fell  from  the  clear  sky  on 
the  wooded  hill,  and  then  rose  again  from  out  of  the  thickets  in 
exhalations  warm  as  the  waves,  which  expire  in  the  shade  after 
having  imbibed  the  sunshine.  There  was  no  other  sound  than 
that  of  the  fall  of  some  dry  leaves  of  the  preceding  winter, 
which,  as  the  sap  rose  and  throbbed,  fell  at  the  foot  of  the  tree, 
to  make  room  for  the  new  and  tender  foliage.  Whole  flights 
of  birds  dashed  against  the  branches  round  their  nests,  and 
there  was  one  vague,  universal  hum  of  insects  that  reveled  in 
the  light,  and  rose  and  fell,  like  a  living  dust,  at  the  least  undu- 
lation of  the  flowering  grass. 

LXXXVIII. — There  was  so  much  sympathy  between  our 
youth  and  the  youthful  year  and  day — such  entire  harmony 
between  the  light,  the  heat,  the  splendor,  the  silence,  the  gentle 
sounds,  the  pensive  delights  of  nature  and  our  own  sensations ; 
we  felt  so  delightfully  mingled  with  the  surrounding  air  and  sky, 
life  and  repose ;  we  were  so  completely  all  to  each  other  in 
this  solitude,  that  our  exuberant  but  satisfied  thoughts  and 
sensations  sufficed  us.  We  did  not  even  seek  for  words  to 
express  them,  but  were  as  the  full  vase,  whose  very  plenitude 
renders  its  contents  motionless.  Our  hearts  could  hold  no  more 


RAPHAEL.  123 

but  they  were  capacious  enough  to  contain  all,  and  nothing 
sought  to  escape  from  them.  Our  breathing  was  scarcely 
audible. 

I  know  not  how  long  we  remained  thus  seated  at  the  foot  of 
the  oak,  mute  and  motionless  beside  one  another,  our  faces 
buried  in  our  hands,  our  feet  in  sunshine  on  the  grass,  our  heads 
in  shade;  but  when  I  raised  my  eyes  the  shadows  had  retreated 
before  us  on  the  grass,  beyond  the  folds  of  Julie's  dress.  I 
looked  at  her,  she  raised  her  face  as  if  by  the  same  impulse 
which  had  made  me  raise  mine  ;  and,  gazing  at  me,  without 
saying  a  word,  she  burst  into  tears.  "Why  do  you  weep1?"  I 
asked,  with  anxious  emotion,  but  in  a  low  tone,  for  fear  of 
disturbing  or  diverting  the  course  of  her  silent  thoughts. 
"  From  happiness,"  she  answered.  Her  lips  smiled,  while  big 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  in  shining  drops,  like  the  dew  of 
Spring.  "  Yes  :  from  happiness,"  she  resumed  ;  "  this  day,  this 
hour,  this  sky,  this  spot,  this  peace,  this  silence,  this  solitude 
with  you ;  this  complete  assimilation  of  our  two  souls,  which 
no  longer  require  to  converse  to  comprehend  each  other,  and 
who  breathe  in  the  same  aspiration,  is  too  much — too  much  for 
mortal  nature,  that  excess  of  joy  may  kill,  as  excess  of  grief; 
and  which,  when  it  can  draw  no  cry  from  the  heart,  grieves  that 
it  can  not  sigh,  and  mourns  that  it  can  not  praise  sufficiently." 

She  stopped  for  an  instant — her  cheeks  were  flushed.  I 
trembled  lest  death  should  seize  her  in  her  joy ;  but  her  voice 
soon  reassured  me.  "Raphael!  Raphael!"  she  exclaimed,  in 
a  solemn  tone,  which  surprised  me,  as  if  she  had  been  announ- 
cing some  good  tidings,  long  and  anxiously  expected — "  Ra- 
phael, there  is  a  God!"  "  How  has  he  been  revealed  to  you 
to-day  more  clearly  than  any  other  day  1"  I  asked.  "  By  love," 
she  answered,  raising  slowly  to  heaven  the  orbs  of  her  bright 
glistening  eyes;  "yes;  by  love,  whose  torrents  have  flowed  in 
my  heart  just  now  with  a  murmuring,  gushing  fullness  that  I 
had  never  felt  before  with  the  same  force,  nor  yet  the  same 
repose.  No !  I  no  longer  doubt,"  she  continued,  in  a  tone 
where  certitude  mingled  with  joy ;  "  the  spring  whence  such 
felicity  is  poured  upon  the  soul  can  not  be  here  below,  nor  can 
it  lose  itself  in  this  earth,  after  having  once  gushed  forth! 
There  is  a  God  ;  there  is  an  eternal  love,  of  which  ours  is  but  a 
drop.  We  will  together  mingle  it  one  day  with  the  Divine 
ocean  from  whence  we  drew  it !  That  ocean  is  God  !  I  see 
it— feel  it— understand  it  in  this  instant  by  my  happiness  I 


124  RAPHAEL. 

Raphael,  it  is  no  longer  you  I  love — it  is  no  longer  I  you  love 
it  is  God  we  henceforward  adore  in  one  another;  you  in  me 
and  I  in  you,  both,  in  these  tears  of  bliss  which  reveal  to  us. 
and  yet  conceal,  the  immortal  fountain  of  our  hearts!  Away," 
she  added,  with  a  still  more  ardent  tone  and  look,  "  away  with 
all  the  vain  names  by  which  we  have  hitherto  called  our  attrac- 
tion toward  each  other.  I  know  but  one  to  express  it — it  is  the 
one  which  has  just  been  revealed  to  me  in  your  eyes  : — God  ! 
God !  God !"  she  exclaimed  once  more,  as  though  she  had 
wished  to  teach  her  lips  a  new  language,  "  God  is  in  you ! 
God  is  in  me  for  you !  God  is  us !  and  henceforward  the 
feelings  which  oppi-essed  us  will  no  longer  be  love,  but  a  holy 
and  rapturous  adoration  !  Raphael,  do  you  understand  me  ? 
You  will  no  longer  be  Raphael,  you  will  be  my  worship  of 
God  !" 

We  rose  in  a  transport  of  enthusiasm  ;  we  embraced  the  tree, 
and  blessed  it  for  the  inspiration  which  had  descended  from  its 
boughs ;  we  gave  it  a  name,  and  called  it  the  tree  of  adoration. 

We  then  slowly  descended  the  hill  of  St.  Cloud  to  return  to 
the  noise  and  turmoil  of  Paris ;  but  she  returned  with  new- 
found faith  and  the  knowledge  of  God  in  her  heart,  and  I  with 
the  joy  of  knowing  that  she  now  possessed  a  bright  and  inward 
source  of  consolation,  hope,  and  peace. 

LXXXIX. — In  a  very  short  time,  the  expense  I  was  obliged 
to  incur,  but  which  I  concealed  from  Julie,  in  order  to  accom- 
pany her  on  our  daily  country  excursions,  had  so  far  exhausted 
the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  my  mother's  last  diamond  that  I  had 
only  ten  louis  left.  When  each  night  I  reckoned  over  the  limit- 
ed number  of  happy  days  represented  by  that  small  sum  I  was 
seized  with  fits  of  despondency,  but  I  should  have  blushed  to 
confess  my  excessive  poverty  to  her  I  loved.  Though  far  from 
wealthy,  she  would  have  wished  to  share  with  me  all  she 
possessed,  and  that  would  have  degraded  our  intercourse  in  my 
eyes.  I  valued  my  love  more  than  life,  but  I  would  rather  have 
died  than  have  debased  my  love. 

The  sedentary  life  I  had  led  all  the  winter  in  my  dismal  room, 
my  intense  application  to  study  all  day,  the  tension  of  my 
thoughts  toward  one  object,  the  want  of  sleep  at  night,  but, 
above  all,  the  moral  exhaustion  of  a  heart  too  weak  to  bear  a 
continuous  ecstasy  of  ten  months,  had  undermined  my  constitu- 
tion. A  consuming  flame,  which  burnt  unfed,  shone  through 


RAPHAEL.  12S 

my  wan  and  pale  face.  Julie  implored  me  to  leave  Paris,  to 
try  tlie  effect  of  my  native  air,  and  to  preserve  my  life,  even  at 
the  expense  of  her  happiness.  She  sent  me  her  doctor,  to  add 
the  authority  of  science  to  the  entreaties  of  her  love.  Her 
doctor,  or  rather  her  friend,  Dr.  Alain,  was  one  of  those  men 
who  carry  a  blessing  with  them,  and  whose  countenance  seems 
to  reflect  Heaven  by  the  bedside  of  the  sick  poor  they  visit.  He 
was  himself  suffering  from  a  complaint  of  the  heart,  brought  on 
by  a  pure  and  mysterious  passion  for  one  of  the  loveliest  women 
in  Paris. 

He  was  active,  humane,  pious,  and  tolerant,  and  possessing  a 
small  fortune  sufficient  for  his  simple  wants  and  charities, 
practiced  only  for  a  few  friends  or  for  the  poor.  His  physic 
was  friendship  or  charity  in  action.  The  medical  career  is  so 
admirable  when  divested  of  all  cupidity,  it  brings  so  much  into 
play  the  better  feelings  of  our  nature,  that  it  often  ends  by  being 
a  virtue  after  commencing  as  a  profession.  With  Dr.  Alain  it 
was  more  than  a  virtue:  it  had  become  a  passion  for  relieving 
the  woes  of  the  body  and  of  the  soul,  which  are  often  so  closely 
linked  !  Where  Alain  brought  life,  he  also  took  God  with  him, 
and  made  even  Death  resplendent  with  serenity  and  immor- 
tality. 

I  saw  him,  too,  die,  some  years  later,  the  death  of  the 
righteous  and  the  just  :  he  had  learned  how  to  die  at  many 
death-beds;  and  when  stretched  motionless  on  his,  during  six 
months  of  agony,  his  eye  counted  on  a  little  clock,  which  stood 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  the  hours  that  divided  him  from  eternity. 
He  pressed  upon  his  bosom,  with  his  crossed  hands,  a  crucifix, 
emblem  of  patience,  and  his  look  never  quitted  that  celestial 
friend,  as  though  he  had  conversed  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 
When  he  suffered  beyond  his  powers  of  endurance,  he  requested 
that  the  crucifix  might  be  approached  to  his  lips,  and  his 
prayers  were  then  mingled  with  thanksgiving.  At  last,  he  slept, 
supported  to  the  end  by  his  hopes,  and  the  memory  of  the  good 
he  had  done.  He  had  given  the  poor  and  the  sick  an  accumu- 
lated treasure  of  good  works  to  carry  before  him  into  the 
presence  of  the  God  of  the  merciful.  He  died  on  a  wretched 
bed  in  a  garret,  leaving  no  inheritance.  The  poor  bore  his 
body  to  the  grave,  and,  in  their  turn,  gave  him  the  burial  of 
charity  in  the  common  earth.  O,  blessed  soul !  that  in  memory, 
I  still  see  smiling  on  that  kind  countenance,  lighted  with  inward 
joy,  can  so  much  virtue  have  been  to  thee  but  a  deception  1 


126  RAPHAEL. 

Hast  thou  vanished  like  the  reflection  of  my  lamp  upon  hia 
portrait,  when  my  hand  withdraws  the  light  that  allowed  rr.e  to 
contemplate  itl  No,  no!  God  is  faithful,  and  can  not  have 
deceived  thee,  who  wouldst  not  have  deceived  a  child. 

XC. — The  doctor  took  a  deep  and  friendly  interest  in  me. 
It  seemed  as  if  Julie  had  imparted  to  him  a  portion  of  her  ten- 
derness. He  understood  my  complaint,  though  he  concealed 
his  knowledge  from  me,  and  was  too  deeply  read  in  human 
passion  not  to  recognize  its  symptoms  in  us.  He  ordered  me 
to  depart  under  penalty  of  death,  and  induced  Julie  herself  to 
enforce  his  commands  by  communicating  to  her  his  fears.  He 
invoked  the  tender  authority  of  love  to  tear  me  from  love.  He 
tried  to  mitigate  the  pang  of  separation  by  the  allurement  of 
hope,  and  ordered  me  to  breathe  some  time  my  native  air,  and 
then  return  to  the  baths  of  Savoy,  where  Julie  should  join  me, 
by  his  advice,  in  the  beginning  of  autumn.  His  principles  did 
not  seem  startled  by  the  symptoms  of  mutual  passion  which  he 
had  not  failed  to  perceive  between  us.  Our  pure  flame  was  in 
his  eyes  a  fault,  but  it  was  also  its  own  purification.  His 
countenance  only  expressed  the  indulgence  of  man,  and  the 
compassion  of  God.  He  thus  endeavored  to  save  us  by  loosen- 
ing the  tie  which  threatened  to  draw  us  to  one  common  death. 
I  at  length  consented  to  be  the  first  to  depart,  and  Julie  swore 
to  follow  me  soon.  Alas  !  her  tears,  her  pale  face,  and  trem- 
bling lips  said  more  than  any  vows.  It  was  settled  that  I 
should  leave  Paris  as  soon  as  my  strength  permitted  me  to 
travel.  The  eighteenth  of  May  was  the  day  fixed  for  my  de 
parture. 

When  once  we  had  resolved  on  our  approaching  separation, 
we  began  to  reckon  the  minutes  as  hours  the  hours  as  days. 
We  would  have  amassed  and  concentrated  years  into  the  short 
space  of  a  second,  to  wrest  from  time  the  happiness  from 
which  we  were  to  be  debarred  during  so  many  months.  These 
days  were  days  of  rapture,  but  they  had  their  anguish  and  their 
agony  ;  the  approaching  morrow  cast  its  gloom  upon  each  inter- 
view, each  look  and  word,  each  pressure  of  the  hand.  Joys  such 
as  these  are  not  joys,  but  disguised  pangs  of  love  and  tortures  of 
the  heart.  We  devoted  the  whole  day  preceding  my  departure 
to  our  adieus.  We  wished  to  say  our  last  farewell  not  within 
the  shadow  of  walls,  which  weigh  down  the  soul,  and  beneath 
the  eyes  of  the  indifferent,  which  throw  back  the  feelings  on  the 


RAPHAEL.  12? 

heart,  but  beneath  the  sky,  in  the  open  air,  in  the  light,  in  soli- 
tude, and  in  silence.  Nature  sympathizes  with  all  the  emotions 
of  man;  she  understands,  and,  as  an  invisible  confidante,  seems 
to  share  them.  She  garners  them  in  heaven  and  renders  them 
divine. 

XCI. — In  the  morning  a  carriage,  which  I  had  hired  for  the 
day,  conveyed  us  to  Monceau.  The  windows  were  down,  the 
blinds  closed.  We  traversed  the  almost  deserted  streets  of 
the  more  elevated  parts  of  Paris,  leading  to  the  high  walls  of 
the  park.  This  garden  was  at  that  time  almost  exclusively  re- 
served for  their  own  use  by  the  princes  to  whom  it  belonged, 
and  could  only  be  entered  on  presenting  tickets  of  admission, 
which  were  very  parsimoniously  distributed  to  a  few  foreigners 
or  travelers  desirous  of  admiring  its  wonderful  vegetation.  I 
had  obtained  some  of  these  tickets,  through  one  of  my  mother's 
early  friends,  who  was  attached  to  the  prince's  household.  I 
had  selected  this  solitude  because  I  knew  its  owners  were  ab- 
sent, that  no  admissions  were  then  given,  and  that  the  very  gar- 
deners would  be  away  enjoying  the  leisure  of  a  holiday. 

This  magnificent  desert,  studded  with  groves  of  trees,  inter- 
spersed with  meadows,  and  traversed  by  limpid  streams,  is  also 
embellished  by  monuments,  columns,  and  ivy-covered  ruins,  im- 
itations of  time  in  which  art  has  copied  the  old  age  of  stone, 
That  day  we  knew  it  would  be  visited  only  by  the  bright  sun- 
beams, the  insects,  the  birds,  and  us !  Alas !  never  were  its 
leaves  aiid  its  green  turf  to  be  watered  by  so  many  tears! 

The  warm  and  glowing  sky,  the  light  and  shade  dancing  fit- 
fully on  the  grass  driven  by  the  summer  breeze,  as  the  shadow 
of  the  wings  of  one  bird  pursuing  another — the  clear  note  of 
the  nightingale  ringing  through  the  sonorous  air — the  distinct- 
ness with  which  the  lilies  of  the  valley,  the  daisies  and  the  blue 
periwinkle  which  carpeted  the  sloping  banks  of  the  clear  waters, 
were  reflected  in  their  polished  mirror ;  all  this  gladness  of 
nature  saddened  us,  and  this  luminous  serenity  of  a  spring 
morning,  only  seemed  to  contrast  the  more  with  the  dark  cloud 
which  weighed  upon  our  hearts.  In  vain  we  sought  to  deceive 
ourselves  even  for  a  moment  by  expatiating  on  the  beauty  of 
the  landscape,  the  brilliant  tints  of  the  flowers,  the  perfumes  of 
the  air,  the  depth  of  the  shade,  the  stillness  of  those  solitudes  in 
which  the  happiness  of  a  whole  world  of  love  might  have  been 
sheltered.  We  carelessly  threw  on  them  an  unheeding  glance, 


RAPHAEL. 


which  quickly  fell  to  the  ground  ;  our  voices,  when  answering 
with  their  vain  formulas  of  joy  and  admiration,  betrayed  the 
hollowness  of  words  and  the  absence  of  our  thoughts  which 
were  elsewhere. 

It  was  in  vain  we  sought  a  resting-place  to  pass  the  long 
hours  of  this  our  last  interview  ;  seating  ourselves  alternately 
beneath  the  most  fragrant  lilacs,  or  the  green  branches  of  the 
loftiest  cedars,  on  the  fluted  fragments  of  columns  half  buried  in 
ivy,  or  by  the  side  of  those  waters  that  lay  most  still  within 
their  grassy  banks,  for  scarcely  had  we  chosen  one  of  these  sites 
when  some  vague  disquietude  drove  us  away  in  search  of  an- 
other. Here  it  was  the  shade,  and  there  the  light  ;  further  on 
the  importunate  murmur  of  the  cascade,  or  the  persisting  song 
of  the  nightingale  over  our  heads,  that  turned  into  bitterness  all 
this  exuberance  of  joy,  and  made  it  odious  in  our  eyes.  When 
our  heart  is  sad  within  us,  all  creation  jars  upon  our  feelings, 
and  it  could  but  have  added  fresh  pangs  to  the  grief  of  two 
lovers,  had  the  garden  of  Eden  been  the  scene  of  their  parting. 

At  last  worn  out  by  wandering  for  two  hours,  and  finding  no 
shelter  against  ourselves,  we  sat  down  near  a  small  bridge 
across  a  stream;  a  little  apart,  as  if  the  very  sound  of  each  oth- 
er's breathing  had  been  painful,  or  as  if  we  had  wished  instinct- 
ively to  conceal  from  one  .another  the  suppressed  sobs  which 
were  bursting  from  our  hearts.  We  long  watched  abstractedly 
the  green  and  slimy  water  as  it  was  slowly  swept  beneath  the 
nai'row  arch  of  the  bridge.  It  carried  along  on  its  surface, 
sometimes  the  white  petals  of  the  lily,  arid  sometimes  an  empty 
and  downy  bird's  nest  which  the  wind  had  blown  from  a  tree. 
We  soon  saw  the  body  of  a  poor  little  swallow,  turned  on  its 
back,  and  with  extended  wings,  floating  down.  It  had,  doubt- 
less, been  drowned  when  skimming  over  the  water  before  its 
wings  were  strong  enough  to  bear  it  on  the  surface  ;  it  remind- 
ed us  of  the  swallow  which  had  one  day  fallen  at  our  feet,  from 
the  top  of  the  dismantled  tower  of  the  old  castle,  on  the  bor- 
ders of  the  lake,  and  which  had  saddened  us  as  an  omen.  The 
dead  bird  passed  slowly  before  us,  and  the  unruffled  sheet  of 
water  rolled  and  engulfed  it  in  the  deep  darkness  below  the 
bridge.  When  the  bird  had  disappeared,  we  saw  another 
swallow  pass  and  repass  a  hundred  times  beneath  the  bridge, 
uttering  its  little  sharp  cry  of  distress,  and  dashing  against  the 
wooden  beams  of  the  arch.  Involuntarily  we  looked  at  each 
other  :  I  can  not  tell  what  our  eyes  expressed  as  they  met,  but 


RAPHAEL.  129 


the  despair  of  the  poor  bird  found  us  with  our  eyelids  so  over- 
charged, and  our  hearts  so  nearly  bursting,  that  we  both  turned 
away  at  the  same  moment,  and  throwing  ourselves  with  oui 
faces  to  the  ground,  sobbed  aloud.  One  tear  called  forth  an- 
other tear,  one  thought  another  thought,  one  foreboding  another 
foreboding,  each  sob  another  sob.  We  often  strove  to  speak, 
but  the  broken  voice  of  the  one  only  made  that  of  the  other  still 
more  inaudible,  and  we  ended  by  yielding  to  nature,  and  pour- 
ing forth  in  silence,  during  hours  marked  by  the  shadows  alone, 
all  the  tears  that  rose  from  their  hidden  springs.  They  fell  on 
the  grass,  sank  into  the  earth,  were  dried  by  the  winds  of 
heaven,  absorbed  by  the  rays  of  the  sun — God  took  them  into 
account!  No  drop  of  anguish  remained  in  our  hearts,  when 
we  rose  face  to  face,  though  almost  hidden  from  each  other  by 
the  tearful  vail  of  our  eyes.  Such  was  our  farewell;  a  funeral 
image,  an  ocean  of  tears  ;  an  eternal  silence.  Thus  we  parted 
without  another  look,  lest  that  look  should  strike  us  to  the  earth. 
Never  will  the  mark  of  my  footsteps  be  again  traced  in  that 
desert  scene  of  our  love  and  of  our  parting. 

XCIf.- — The  next  morning  I  was  rolling  along,  sad  and  silent, 
wrapped  in  my  cloak,  among  the  barren  hills  on  the  road  that 
leads  from  Paris  toward  the  south.  I  was  stowed  away  in  a 
public  coach,  with  five  or  six  unknown  fellow-travelers,  who 
were  gayly  discussing  the  quality  of  the  wine  and  the  price  of 
the  last  dinner  at  the  inn.  I  never  once  opened  my  lips  during 
that  long,  sad  journey. 

My  mother  received  me  with  that  serene  and  resigned  ten- 
derness, which  might  have  made  even  misfortune  happy  in  her 
company.  Her  diamond  had  been  spent  in  vain  to  advance  my 
fortunes,  and  I  returned  home,  with  shattered  health  and  broken 
hopes — consumed  with  melancholy  that  she  attributed  to  my 
unoccupied  youth  and  i-estless  magination,  but  of  which  1  care- 
fully concealed  the  real  cause,  for  fear  of  adding  an  irremediable 
sorrow  to  all  her  other  griefs. 

I  spent  the  summer  alone  in  an  almost  deserted  valley  in- 
closed between  barren  hills,  where  my  father  had  a  little  farm, 
which  was  worked  by  a  poor  family.  My  rno.ther  had  sent  me 
there,  and  commended  me  to  the  care  of  these,  good  people, 
that  I  might  have  a  change  of  air  and  the  benefit  of  milk  diet. 
My  whole  occupation  was  to  reckon  the  days  which  must  inter- 
vene before  I  could  join  Julie  in  our  dear  Alpine  valley  Hei 

F* 


130  RAPHAEL. 


letters  received  and  replied  to  daily,  confirmed  me  in  my  secu 
rity,  and  dispelled,  by  their  sportive  gayety  and  caressing  words, 
the  gloomy  and  sinister  forebodings  our  last  farewell  had  raised 
in  my  heart.  Now  and  then,  some  desponding  word  or  ex- 
pression of  sadness,  which  seemed  to  have  unguardedly  escaped, 
or  been  involuntarily  overlooked  among  her  vistas  of  happiness, 
as  a  dry  leaf  in  the  midst  of  the  foliage  of  spring,  struck  me  as 
being  in  contradiction  with  the  calm  and  blooming  health  she 
spoke  of.  But  I  attributed  these  discrepancies  to  some  vision 
of  memory  or  to  her  impatience  at  the  slowness  of  time  which 
might  have  flitted  like  shadows  across  the  paper  as  she  wrote. 

The  bracing  mountain  air,  sleep  at  night,  and  exercise  by 
day,  the  healthy  employment  of  working  in  the  garden  and  in 
the  farm,  soon  restored  me  to  health ;  but,  above  all,  the  approach 
of  autumn,  and  the  certainty  of  soon  seeing  her  once  more,  who 
by  her  looks  would  give  me  life.  The  only  remaining  trace  of 
my  sufferings  was  a  gentle  and  pensive  melancholy  which  over- 
spread my  countenance  ;  it  was  as  the  mist  of  a  summer's  morn- 
ing. My  silence  seemed  to  conceal  some  mystery,  and  my  in- 
stinctive love  of  solitude  made  the  superstitious  peasants  of  the 
.mountains  believe  that  I  conversed  with  the  Genii  of  the  woods. 

All  ambition  had  been  extinguished  in  me  by  my  love.  I  had 
made  ,up  ray  mind  for  life  to  my  hopeless  poverty  and  obscurity, 
and  my  mother's  serene  and  pious  resignation  had  entered  into 
my  heart  with  her  holy  and  gentle  words.  I  only  indulged  the 
dream  of  working  during  ten  or  eleven  months  of  the  year  man- 
ually, or  with  my  pen  to  earn  sufficiently  thereby  to  spend  a 
month  or  two  with  J  ulie  every  year.  I  thought  that  if  the  old 
man's  protection  were  one  day  to  fail,  I  would  devote  myself  to 
her  service  as  a  slave,  like  Rousseau  to  Madame  de  Warens ; 
we  .would  take  shelter  in  some  secluded  cottage  of  these  mount- 
ains, or  in  the  well-known  chalets  of  our  Savoy ;  I  would  live 
for  her,  as  she  would  live  for  me,  without  looking  back  with 
r,egret  to  the  empty  world,  and  asking  of  love  no  other  reward 
than  the  happiness  of  loving 

XCIII. — I  was,  however,  often  recalled  harshly  from  my 
dreamy  region,  by  the  cruel  penury  of  my  home,  which  was 
partly  attributable  to  the  unavailing  expense  incurred  for  me. 
Crops  had  failed  during  successive  years,  and  reverses  of  fortune 
had  changed  the  humble  mediocrity  of  my  parents  into  compar- 
ative want.  When  on  Sundays,  I  went  to  see  my  mother,  she 


RAPHAEL.  131 


spoke  of  her  distresses,  and,  before  me,  shed  tears  that  she  con- 
cealed from  my  father  and  my  sisters.  I,  too,  was  reduced  to 
extreme  destitution.  I  lived  at  the  little  farm  on  brown  bread, 
milk,  and  eggs,  and  had  in  secret,  sold  successively  in  the  neigh- 
boring town  all  the  books  and  clothes  I  had  brought  from  Paris, 
to  procure  wherewithal  to  pay  the  postage  of  Julie's  letters,  for 
which  I  would  have  sold  my  life's  blood. 

The  month  of  September  was  drawing  to  a  close.  Julie 
wrote  me,  that  her  anxiety  on  the  score  of  her  husband's  daily 
declining  health  (Oh  !  pious  fraud  of  love  to  conceal  her  own 
sufferings  and  lighten  my  cares)  would  detain  her  longer  in 
Paris  than  she  had  expected.  She  pressed  me  to  start  at  once, 
and  await  her  in  Savoy,  where  she  would  join  me  without  fail 
toward  the  end  of  October.  The  letter  was  one  of  tender 
advice,  as  that  of  a  sister  to  a  beloved  brother.  She  implored 
and  ordered  me,  with  the  sovereign  authority  of  love,  to  beware 
of  that  insidious  disease  which  lurks  beneath  the  flowery  surface 
of  youth,  and  often  withers  and  consumes  it  at  the  very  moment 
we  think  that  we  have  overcome  its  power.  Inclosed,  she  sent 
a  consultation  and  a  prescription  from  good  Dr.  Alain,  ordering 
me  in  the  most  imperative  tones,  and  with  the  most  alarming 
ihreats,  to  remain  during  a  long  season  at  the  baths  of  Aix.  I 
showed  this  prescription  to  my  mother,  to  account  for  my  de- 
oarture,  and  she  was  so  disquieted  by  it,  that  she  added  her  en- 
treaties to  the  injunctions  of  the  doctor  to  induce  me  to  go. 
Alas  !  I  had  in  vain  applied  to  a  few  friends  as  poor  as  myself, 
and  to  some  pitiless  usurers,  to  obtain  the  trifling  sum  of  twelve 
louis  required  for  my  journey.  My  father  had  been  absent  six 
months,  and  my  mother  would  on  no  account  have  aggravated 
his  distress  and  anxiety  by  asking  him  for  money.  In  borrow- 
ing, he  would  have  exposed  his  poverty,  by  which  he  wa? 
already  too  much  humbled.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  start 
with  two  or  three  louis  only  in  my  purse,  in  the  hopes  of  bor- 
rowing the  remainder  from  my  friend,  L  *  *  *,  at  Chambery ; 
when,  a  few  days  before  my  departure,  my  mother,  during  a 
sleepless  night,  found  in  her  heart  a  resource,  that  a  mother's 
heart  could  alone  have  furnished. 

XCIV. — In  one  of  the  corners  of  the  little  garden  that  sur 
rounded  our  house,  there  stood  a  cluster  of  trees,  comprising  a 
few  evergreen  oaks,  two  or  three  lime  trees,  and  seven  or  eight 
twisted  elms,  which  were  the  remains  of  a  wood,  planted  cen 


1  32  R  A  P  II  A  E  L. 

turies  ago,  and  had,  doubtless,  been  respected  as  the  genius  loci 
when  the  hill  had  been  cleared,  the  house  built,  arid  the  garden 
first  walled  in.  These  lofty  trees  in  summer  time  served  as  a 
family  saloon,  in  the  open  air.  Their  buds  in  spring,  their  tints 
in  autumn,  and  their  dry  leaves  in  winter,  which  were  succeeded 
by  the  hoar  frost  hanging  from  their  branches  like  white  hair, 
had  marked  the  seasons  for  us.  Their  shadows,  rolled  back 
upon  their  very  feet,  or  stretched  out  to  the  grassy  border 
around,  told  us  the  hours  better  than  a  dial.  Beneath  their 
foliage,  our  mother  had  nursed  us,  lulled  us  to  rest,  and  taught 
us  our  first  steps.  My  father  sat  there,  book  in  hand,  when 
he  returned  from  shooting;  his  shining  gun  suspended  from  a 
branch,  his  panting  dogs  crouching  beneath  the  bench.  I,  too, 
had  spent  there  the  fairest  hours  of  my  boyhood,  with  Homer 
or  Telemachus  lying  open  on  the  grass  before  me.  I  loved  to 
lie  flat  on  the  warm  turf,  my  elbows  resting  on  the  volume,  of 
which  a  passing  fly  or  lizard  would  sometimes  hide  the  lines. 
The  nightingales  among  the  branches  sang  for  our  home,  though 
we  could  never  find  their  nest,  or  even  see  the  branch  from 
which  their  song  burst  forth.  This  grove  was  the  pride,  the 
recollection,  the  love  of  all !  The  idea  of  converting  it  into  a 
small  bag  of  money,  which  would  leave  no  memory  in  the  heart 
— no  perpetual  joy  and  shade — would  have  occurred  to  no  one, 
save  to  a  mother,  trembling  with  anxiety  for  the  life  of  an  only 
son.  My  mother  conceived  the  thought ;  and,  with  the  readi 
ness  and  firmness  of  resolve  that  distinguished  her,  called  for 
the  woodcutters  as  soon  as  morning  came — fearing  lest  she 
should  feel  remorse,  or  my  entreaties  stop  her,  if  she  first  con- 
sulted me.  She  saw  the  ax  laid  to  their  roots,  and  wept,  and 
turned  away  her  head,  not  to  hear  their  moan,  or  witness  the 
fall  of  these  leafy  protectoi's  of  her  youth  on  the  echoing  and 
desolate  soil  of  the  garden. 

XCV. — When  I  returned  to  M  *  *  *  on  the  following  Sun- 
day, I  looked  round  from  the  top  of  the  mountain  for  the  clump 
of  trees  that  stood  out  so  pleasantly  on  the  hill  side,  screening 
from  the  sun  a  portion  of  the  gray  wall  of  the  house ;  and  it 
seemed  as  a  dream  when  in  their  wonted  place  I  perceived 
only  heaps  of  hewn  down  trunks,  whose  barked  and  bleeding 
branches  strewed  the  earth  around.  A  sawirig-trestle  stood 
there,  like  an  instrument  of  toiture,  on  which  the  saw  with  its 
grinding  tueth  divided  the  trees.  I  hurried  on  with  extended 


RAPHAEL.  133 

arras  toward  the  outer  wall,  and   trembled   as  I  opened  the 

little  garden  door Alas  !  the  evergreen  oak,  one  lime 

tree,  and  the  oldest  elm  alone  were  standing,  and  the  bench 
had  been  drawn  in  beneath  their  shade.  "  They  are  sufficient," 
said  my  mother,  as  she  advanced  toward  me,  and,  to  conceal 
her  tears,  threw  herself  into  my  arms  ;  "  the  shade  of  one  tree 
is  worth  that  of  a  whole  forest.  Besides,  to  me  what  shade 
can  equal  yours  ]  Do  not  be  angry.  I  wrote  to  your  father 
that  the  trees  were  dying  from  the  top,  arid  that  they  were 
hurtful  to  the  kitchen-garden.  Speak  no  more  of  them  !".... 
Then  leading  me  into  the  house,  she  opened  her  desk  and  drew 
forth  a  hag  half-filled  with  money.  "  Take  this,"  she  said, 
"  and  go.  The  trees  will  have  been  amply  paid  me,  if  you 
return  well  and  happy." 

I  blushed,  and  with  a  stifled  sob  took  the  bag.  There  were 
six  hundred  francs  in  it,  which  I  resolved  to  bring  back  un- 
touched to  my  poor  mother. 

I  started  on  foot,  like  a  sportsman,  with  leathern  gaiters  on  my 
feet,  and  my  gun  on  my  shoulder,  and  took  from  the  bag  only 
one  hundred  francs,  which  I  added  to  the  little  1  had  remaining 
from  the  proceeds  of  my  last  sale.  I  could  not  bear  to  spend 
the  price  of  the  trees,  and  therefore  concealed  the  remainder  of 
the  money  at  the  farm,  that  on  my  return  I  might  restore  it  to 
her,  who  had  so  heroically  torn  it  from  her  heart  for  me.  I  ate 
and  slept  at  the  humblest  inns  in  the  villages  through  which  I 
passed,  and  was  taken  for  a  poor  Swiss  student  returning  from 
the  University  of  Strasbourg.  I  was  never  charged  but  the 
strict  value  of  the  bread  I  ate,  of  the  candle  I  burned,  and  of 
the  pallet  on  which  I  slept.  I  had  brought  but  one  book  with 
me,  which  I  read  at  evening  on  the  bench  before  the  inn  door ; 
it  was  Werther,  in  German  ;  and  the  unknown  characters  con- 
firmed my  hosts  in  the  idea  that  I  was  a  foreign  traveler. 

I  thus  wandered  through  the  long  and  picturesque  gorges  of 
Bugey,  and  crossed  the  Rhone  at  the  foot  of  the  rock  of  Pierre- 
Chatel.  The  narrowed  river  eternally  rushes  past  the  base  of 
this  rock,  with  a  current  wearing  as  the  grind-stone  and  cutting 
as  the  knife,  as  if  to  undermine  and  overthrow  the  state  prison, 
whose  gloomy  shadow  saddens  its  waters.  I  slowly  ascended 
the  Mont  du  Chat  by  the  paths  of  the  chamois  hunters  ;  arrived 
at  its  summit,  I  perceived  stretched  out  before  me  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  valley  of  Aix,  Chambery,  and  Annecy;  and  at  my 
feet  the  lake,  dappled  with  rosy  tints  by  the  floating  rays  of  the 


134  RAPHAEL. 

setting  sun.  One  single  image  filled  for  me  the  immensity  of 
this  horizon ;  it  rose  from  the  chalets  where  we  had  met ;  from 
the  doctor's  garden,  the  pointed  slate  roof  of  whose  house  I  could 
recognize  above  the  smoke  of  the  town ;  from  the  fig  trees  of 
the  little  castle  of  Bon-Port  at  the  bottom  of  the  opposite  creek; 
from  the  chestnut  trees  on  the  hill  of  Tresserves ;  from  the 
woods  of  Saint  Innocent;  from  the  island  of  Chatillon;  from 
the  boats  which  were  returning  to  their  moorings,  from  all  this 
earth,  from  all  this  sky,  from  all  these  waves !  I  fell  on  my 
knees  before  this  horizon  filled  with  one  image ;  I  spread  out 
my  arms  and  folded  them  again,  as  if  I  could  have  embraced 
her  spirit  by  clasping  the  air  which  had  swept  over  these  scenes 
of  our  happiness,  over  all  the  traces  of  her  footsteps  ! 

I  then  sat  down  behind  a  rock  which  screened  me  even  from 
the  sight  of  the  goatherds,  as  they  passed  along  the  path.  There 
I  remained,  sunk  in  contemplation,  and  reveling  in  remem- 
brances, till  the  sun  was  almost  dipping  behind  the  snow-clad 
tops  of  Nivoles.  I  did  not  wish  to  cross  the  lake,  or  enter  the 
town  by  daylight,  as  the  homeliness  of  my  dress,  the  scanti- 
ness of  my  purse,  and  the  frugality  of  lifo  to  which  I  was  con- 
strained, in  order  to  live  some  months  near  Julie,  would  have 
seemed  strange  to  the  inmates  of  the  old  doctor's  house.  They 
formed  too  great  a  contrast  with  my  elegance  in  dress,  and 
habits  of  life,  during  the  preceding  season.  I  should  have 
made  those  blush  whom  I  had  accosted  in  the  streets,  in  the 
garb  of  one  who  had  not  even  the  means  of  locating  himself  in 
a  decent  hotel  in  this  abode  of  luxury.  I  had,  therefore,  re- 
solved to  slip  by  night  into  the  humble  suburb,  bordering  a 
rivulet,  which  runs  through  the  orchards  below  the  town. 

I  knew  there  a  poor  young  serving  girl,  called  Fauchette, 
who  had  married  a  boatman  the  year  before.  She  had  reserved 
Borne  beds  in  the  garret  of  her  cottage,  that  she  might  board 
and  lodge  one  or  two  poor  invalids  at  fifteen  sous  a  day.  I  had 
engaged  one  of  these  rooms,  and  a  place  at  the  humble  board 
of  the  good  creature.  My  friend,  L  *  *  *,  from  Chambery,  to 
whom  I  had  written,  naming  the  day  of  my  arrival  on  the 
borders  of  the  lake,  had  some  days  previously  taken  my  lodging 
and  warned  Fauchette  of  my  arrival,  binding  her  to  secrecy. 
I  had  also  begged  him  to  receive,  under  cover  to  himself,  at 
Chambery,  any  letters  that  might  be  addressed  to  me  from 
Paris.  He  was  to  forward  them  to  me  by  one  of  the  drivers 
of  the  light  carts  that  run  continually  between  the  two  towns. 


RAPHAEL.  J3.^ 

I  intended,  during  my  stay  at  Aix,  to  remain  in  the  day  time 
concealed  in  my  little  cottage  room,  or  in  the  surrounding 
orchards.  I  would  only,  I  thought,  go  out  in  the  evening;  I 
would  go  up  to  the  doctor's  house  by  the  skirts  of  the  town; 
I  would  enter  the  garden  by  the  gate  which  opened  on  the 
country,  and  pass  in  delightful  intercourse  the  solitary  evening 
hours.  I  would  bear  with  pleasure  want  and  humiliation,  which 
would  be  compensated  a  thousand  fold  by  those  hours  of  love. 
I  thought  thus  to  conciliate  the  respect  I  owed  to  my  poor 
mother  for  the  sacrifices  she  had  made,  with  my  devotion  to 
the  idol  I  came  to  worship. 

XCVI. — From  a  pious  superstition  of  love,  I  had  calculated 
my  steps  during  my  long  pedestrian  journey,  so  as  to  arrive  at 
the  Abbey  of  Haute-Combe,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Mont  du 
Chat,  upon  the  anniversary  of  the  day  that  the  miracle  of  our 
meeting,  and  the  revelation  of  our  two  hearts,  had  taken  place 
in  the  fisherman's  inn  on  the  borders  of  the  lake.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  days,  like  all  other  mortal  things,  had  their  destiny, 
and  that  in  the  conjunction  of  the  same  sun,  the  same  month, 
the  same  date,  and  in  the  same  spot,  I  might  find  something  of 
her  I  loved.  It  would  be  an  augury,  at  least,  of  our  speedy 
and  lasting  reunion. 

XCVIt. — From  the  brink  of  the  almost  perpendicular  sides 
-of  the  Mont  du  Chat  that  descend  to  the  lake,  I  could  see  on 
<ny  left  the  old  ruins  and  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  Abbey, 
which  darkened  a  vast  extent  of  the  waters.  In  a  few  minutes 
I  reached  the  spot.  The  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  Alps,  and 
the  long  twilight  of  autumn  enveloped  the  mountains,  the 
waves,  and  the  shore.  I  did  not  stop  at  the  ruins,  and  passed 
rapidly  through  the  orchard  where  we  ha<l  sat  at  the  foot  of 
the  haystack,  near  the  bee  hives.  The  hives  and  the  haystack 
were  still  there ;  but  there  was  no  glow  of  fire  lighting  the 
windows  of  the  little  inn,  rio  smoke  ascending  from  the  roof,  no 
nets  hung  out  to  dry  on  the  palisades  of  the  garden. 

I  knocked,  no  one  answered  ;  I  shook  the  wooden  latch,  and 
the  door  opened  of  itself.  I  entered  the  little  hall  with  the 
emoky  walls  ;  the  health  was  swept  clean,  even  to  the  very 
ashes,  and  the  table  and  furniture  had  been  removed.  The 
flagstones  of  the  pavement  were  strewed  with  straws  and 
feathers,  lhat  had  fallen  from  five  or  six  empty  swallows'  n«sta 


136  RAPHAEL. 

which  hung  from  the  blackened  beams  of  the  ceiling.  I  went 
up  the  wooden  ladder  which  was  fastened  to  the  wall  by  an 
iron  hook,  and  served  to  ascend  into  the  upper  room  where 
Julie  had  awaked  from  her  swoon,  with  her  hand  on  my  fore- 
head. I  entered  as  one  enters  a  sanctuary  or  a  sepulcher,  and 
looked  around ;  the  wooden  beds,  the  presses,  the  stools  were 
all  gone.  .  The  sound  of  my  footsteps  frightened  a  nocturnal 
bird  of  prey,  that  heavily  flapped  its  wings,  and  after  beating 
against  the  walls,  flew  out  with  a  shrill  cry,  through  the  open 
window  into  the  orchard.  I  could  scarcely  distinguish  the 
place  where  I  had  knelt  during  that  terrible  and  yet  enchanting 
night,  at  the  bedside  of  the  sleeper  or  of  the  dead.  I  kissed 
the  floor,  and  sat  for  a  long  while  on  the  edge  of  the  window, 
trying  to  evoke  again  in  my  memory,  the  room,  the  furniture, 
the  bed,  the  lamp,  the  hours,  which  had  kept  their  place  within 
me,  though  all  had  been  changed  during  a  single  year  of  absence. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  lonely  neighborhood  of  the  cottage 
who  could  furnish  any  information  as  to  the  cause  of  its  being 
thus  deserted.  I  conjectured  from  the  heaps  of  fagots  which 
remained  in  the  yard,  from  the  hens  and  pigeons  which  returned 
of  themselves  to  roost  in  the  room,  or  on  the  roof,  and  from  the 
stacks  of  hay  and  straw  which  stood  untouched  in  the  orchard, 
that  the  family  had  gone  to  gather  in  a  late  harvest  in  the  high 
chalets  of  the  mountain,  and  had  not  yet  come  down  again. 

The  solitude  of  which  I  had  thus  taken  possession  was  sad  ; 
not  so  sad,  however,  as  the  presence  of  the  indifferent  in  a  spot 
that  was  sacred  in  my  eyes.  I  must  have  controlled  before  them 
my  looks,  my  voice,  my  gestures,  and  the  impressions  that  as- 
sailed me.  I  resolved  to  pass  the  night  there,  and  brought  up 
a  bundle  of  fresh  straw,  which  I  spread  on  the  floor,  on  the  same 
spot  where  Julie  had  slept  her  death-like  sleep.  I  leaned  my 
gun  against  the  wall,  arid  then  took  out  of  my  knapsack  some 
bread  and  a  goat  cheese  that  I  had  bought  at  Seyssel  to  support 
me  on  the  road.  I  went  out  to  eat  my  supper  on  a  green  plat- 
form above  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey,  by  the  side  of  the  spring 
which  flows  and  stops  alternately,  like  the  intermittent  breathing 
of  the  mountain. 

XC  VIII. — From  the  edge  of  that  platform,  and  from  the  dis- 
mantled terraces  of  the  old  monastery,  at  evening  ;tme,  the  eye 
embraces  the  most  enchanting  horizon  that  ever  delighted  an 
anchorite,  a  contemplator,  or  a  lover.  Behind  is  the  green  and 


RAPHAEL.  1ST 

humid  shade  of  the  mountain,  with  the  murmur  of  its  source,  and 
the  rustling  of  its  foliage  ;  and  on  one  side  the  ruins,  the  broken 
walls,  with  their  garlands  of  ivy,  and  the  dark  arcades  replete 
with  night  and  mystery,  the  lake  with  its  expiring  waves  slowly 
rolling,  one  by  one;  then  fringes  of  spray  at  the  foot  of  the  rocks, 
as  if  to  spread  its  couch  and  lull  its  sleep  on  the  fine  sands.  On 
the  opposite  shore,  the  blue  mountains  clothed  with  their  trans- 
parent tints ;  and  on  the  right,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the 
luminous  track  that  the  sun  leaves  in  crimson  light  on  the  sky 
and  on  the  lake,  when  it  withdraws  its  splendor.  I  reveled  in 
this  light  and  shade,  in  these  clouds  and  waves.  I  incorporated 
myself  with  lovely  nature,  and  thought  thus  to  incorporate  in 
me  the  image  of  her  who  was  all  nature  for  me.  1  inwardly 
said,  I  saw  her  there  !  I  was  at  that  distance  from  her  boat 
when  I  saw  it  struggling  against  the  storm.  There  is  the  shore 
where  she  landed  !  There  is  the  orchard  where  we  opened  our 
hearts  to  each  other  in  the  sunshine,  and  where  she  returned  to 
life  to  give  me  two  lives.  There  in  the  distance  are  the  tops  of 
the  poplars  of  the  great  avenue  which  unrolls  its  length  like  a 
green  serpent  issuing  from  the  waves !  There  are  the  chalets, 
mossy  turf,  and  woods  of  chestnut  trees,  the  sheltered  paths  upon 
the  highest  mountain-plains,  where  I  picked  flowers,  strawber- 
ries, and  chestnuts  to  fill  her  lap  !  There  she  said  this ;  there 
I  confessed  some  secret  of  my  soul,  and  on  that  spot  we  re- 
mained a  whole  evening  silent,  our  hearts  flooded  with  enthu- 
siasm, our  lips  without  language !  Upon  these  waves  she  wished 
to  die;  upon  this  shore  she  promised  me  to  live  !  Beneath  yon- 
der group  of  walnut  trees,  then  leafless,  she  bid  me  farewell, 
and  promised  me  that  I  should  see  her  again  before  the  new 
leaves  should  have  turned  yellow  !  They  are  about  to  change  : 
but  love  is  faithful  as  Nature.  In  a  few  days  I  shall  see  her 
once  more I  see  her  already;  for  am  I  not  here  await- 
ing her,  and  thus  to  wait  is  it  not  as  though  I  saw  her  again  ] 

XCIX. — Then  I  pictured  to  myself  the  instant  when,  from 
the  shady  orchards  that  slope  down  from  the  mountains  behind 
the  old  doctor's  house,  I  should  see  at  last  that  window  of  the 
closed  room  where  she  was  expected — see  it  open  for  the  first 
time,  and  a  woman's  face,  half-hidden  in  its  long  dark  hair,  ap- 
pear between  the  open  curtains,  dreaming  of  that  brother  «vhoir. 
her  eye  seeks  in  the  glorious  landscape,  where  she,  too,  sees  but 
him And  at  that  image  my  heart  beat  so  impetuously 


138  RAPHAEL. 

in  my  breast  that  I  was  forced  to  drive  away  the  fancy  for  aii 
instant  in  order  to  breathe. 

In  the  mean  time,  night  had  almost  entirely  descended  from 
the  mountain  to  the  lake.  One  could  only  see  the  waters 
through  a  mist  that  glazed  and  darkened  their  wide  expanse. 
Amid  the  profound  and  universal  silence  which  precedes  dark- 
ness, the  regular  sound  of  oars  which  seemed  to  approach  land, 
smote  upon  my  ear.  I  soon  saw  a  little  speck  moving  on  the 
waters,  and  increasing  gradually  in  size  until  it  slid  into  the  lit- 
tle cove  near  the  fisherman's  house,  throwing  on  either  side  a 
light  fringe  of  spray.  Thinking  that  it  might  be  the  fisherman 
returning  from  the  Savoy  coast  to  his  deserted  dwelling,  I  hur- 
ried down  from  the  ruins  to  the  shore,  to  be  there  when  the 
boat  came  in.  I  waited  on  the  sand  till  the  fisherman  landed. 

C. — As  soon  as  he  saw  me  he  cried  out,  '•  Are  you,  sir,  the 
young  Frenchman  who  is  expected  at  Fauchette's,  and  to  whom 
I  have  been  ordered  to  give  these  papers]"  So  saying,  he 
jumped  out  of  the  boat,  and,  wading  knee-deep  through  the 
water,  handed  me  a  thick  letter.  I  felt  by  its  weight  that  it 
was  an  inclosure  containing  many  others.  I  hastily  tore  open 
the  first  cover,  and  read  indistinctly,  in  the  dim  moonlight,  a 
note  from  my  friend  L  *  *  *,  dated  that  same  morning  from 
Chambery.  L  *  *  *  informed  me  that  my  lodging  was  taken 
and  prepared  for  me  at  Fauchette's  poor  house  in  the  Fau- 
bourg, and  that  no  one  had  yet  arrived  from  Paris  at  our  old 
friend  the  doctor's.  He  added,  that,  having  learned  from  my- 
self that  I  should  be  that  same  evening  at  Haute-Combe  to 
spend  the  night  and  a  part  of  the  following  day,  he  had  taken 
advantage  of  the  departure  of  a  trusty  boatman  who  was  to  pass 
beneath  the  Abbey  walls,  to  send  me  a  packet  of  letters,  which 
had  arrived  two  days  before,  arid  that  I  was  doubtless  eagerly 
expecting.  He  purposed  joining  me  at  Haute-Combe  the  fol- 
lowing day,  that  we  might  cross  the  lake  together,  and  enter  the 
town  under  the  shadow  of  night. 

CI. — While  my  eye  glanced  over  the  note,  I  held  the  packet 
with  a  trembling  hand.  It  seemed  to  me  heavy  as  my  fate.  I 
hastened  to  pay  and  dismiss  the  boatman,  who  was  impatient 
to  be  off,  so  as  to  leave  the  lake  and  enter  the  waters  of  the 
Rhone  before  dark.  I  only  asked  him  for  a  piece  of  candle,  to 
enable  m?  to  read  my  letters;  he  gave  it,  and  I  soon  heard  tho 


RAPHAEL.  139 

strokes  of  his  oars,  as  they  once  more  cut  through  the  deep  sheet 
of  water.  I  returned  overjoyed  to  the  upper  room,  to  see  once 
more  the  sacred  characters  of  that  angel  in  the  very  place  where 
she  had  first  revealed  herself  to  me  in  all  her  splendor  and  in 
all  her  love.  I  felt  sure  that  one  of  those  letters  must  inform 
rne  that  she  had  left  Paris  and  would  soon  bo  with  me.  I  sat 
down  on  the  bundle  of  straw  which  I  had  brought  up  for  my 
bed,  and  lighted  my  candle  by  means  of  the  priming  of  my  gun. 
I  hastily  tore  open  the  cover,  and  it  was  only  then  I  perceived 
that  the  seal  of  the  first  envelope  was  black,  and  that  the  address 
was  in  the  hand-writing  of  Dr.  Alain.  I  shuddered  as  I  saw 
mourning  where  I  had  expected  to  find  joy.  The  other  letters 
slid  from  my  hands  on  to  my  knees.  1  dared  not  read  on  for 

fear  of  finding alas !   what  neither  hand,  nor  eye,  nor 

blood,  nor  tears,  nor  earth,  nor  heaven  could  evermore  efface 

Death  ! Though  my  very  soul  trembled  so  as 

to  make  the  syllables  dance  before  my  eyes,  I  read  at  last  these 
words  : 

"  Prove  yourself  a  man  !     Submit  yourself  to  the  will  of  Him 

whose  ways  are  not  our  ways ;  expect  her  no  longer  ! 

Look  for  her  no  more  on  earth  ;  she  has  returned  to  Heaven, 

calling  on  your  name Thursday  at  sunrise She 

told  me  all  before  she  died She  directed  me  to  send  you 

her  last  thoughts,  which  she  wrote  down,  till  the  very  instant 

her  hand  grew  cold  while  tracing  your  name Love  her 

in  Christ,  who  loved  us  unto  death,  and  live  for  your  mother! 

"  ALAIN." 

CII. — I^ell  back  senseless  on  the  straw,  and  only  recovered 
consciousness  when  the  cold  air  of  midnight  chilled  my  brow. 
The  light  was  still  burning,  and  the  doctor's  letter  was  grasped 
convulsively  in  my  hand.  The  untouched  packet  had  fallen  on 
the  floor ;  I  opened  it  with  my  lips,  as  if  I  feared  to  profane  the 
heavenly  message  by  breaking  the  seal  with  my  fingers.  Sev- 
eral long  letters  from  Julie  fell  out;  they  were  arranged  accord- 
ing to  dates. 

In  the  first  there  was :  "  Raphael !  O  my  Raphael !  O  my 
brother !  forgive  your  sister  for  having  so  long  deceived  you. 

I  never  hoped  to  see  you  once  more  in  Savoy  ! 

I  knew  that  my  days  were  numbered,  and  that  I  could  not 

live  on  till  that  day  of  happiness  ! When  I  said  at  the 

gate  of  the  garden  of  Monceau,  We  shall  meet  again,  Raphael, 


140  RAPHAEL. 

you  did  not  understand  me,  but  God  did.  I  meant  to  say 
We  shall  meet  again,  once  more  to  love,  to  bless  eternally 
in  Heaven  !  I  begged  Dr.  Alain  to  aid  me  in  deceiving  you, 
and  sending  you  away  from  Paris.  It  was  my  wish,  it  was  my 
duty,  to  spare  you  such  a  sight  of  anguish  as  would  have  torn 
your  heart  asunder,  and  would  have  been  too  much  for  youi 

strength And  then  again  ....  forgive  me,  1  must  tell  you 

all — I  did  not  wish  you  to  see  me  die I  wished  to  spread 

a  vail  between  us  some  time  before  death  !  .  .  .  .  Cold  death  ! 
....  I  feel  it,  see  it,  arid  shudder  at  myself  in  death  !  Raphael! 
I  sought  to  leave  an  image  of  beauty  in  your  eyes,  that  you 
might  ever  contemplate  and  adore !  But  now,  you  must  not 
go  ....  you  must  not  go  to  await  me  in  Savoy !  Yet  a  little 
while  ....  two  or  three  days,  perhaps  ....  and  you  need  seek 
me  nowhere  !  But  I  shall  be  there,  Raphael !  I  shall  be 
every  where,  and  always  where  you  are." 

This  letter  had  been  moistened  with  tears,  which  had  un- 
glazed  and  stiffened  the  paper. 

In  the  other,  dated  the  following  night,  I  read  : — 

"  Midnight. 

"  Raphael,  your  prayers  have  drawn  down  a  blessing  from 
Heaven  upon  me.  I  thought  yesterday  of  the  tree  of  adora- 
tion at  St.  Cloud,  at  whose  foot  I  saw  God  through  your  soul. 
But  there  is  another  holier  tree — the  Cross !....!  have  em- 
braced it I  will  cling  to 'it  evermore Oh,  how  that 

divine  blood  cleanses !  how  those  divine  tears  purify !  .  .  .  .  Yes- 
terday I  sent  for  a  holy  priest  of  whom  Alain  had  spoken.  He 
is  an  old  man  who  knows  every  thing ;  who  forgives  all !  I  have 
discovered  my  soul  to  him,  and  he  has  shed  on  it  the  love  and 

light  of  God How  good  is  God  !  how  indulgent,  how  full 

of  loving  kindness !  How  little  we  know  him !  He  suffers 
me  to  love  you,  to  have  you  for  my  brother,  to  be  your  sister 
here  below,  if  I  live  ;  your  guardian  angel  above,  if  I  die  !  O, 
Raphael !  let  us  love  him,  since  he  permits  that  we  should  love 
one  another  as  we  do !".  ...  At  the  end  of  the  letter  there  was 
a  little  cross  traced,  and,  as  it  were,  the  impress  of  a  kiss  all 
round. 

CIII. — There  was  another  letter  written  in  a  totally  altered 
hand,  where  the  characters  crossed  and  mingled  on  the  page,  as 
if  traced  in  the  dark,  which  said  : 

"  Raphael !  I  must  say  one  word  more — to-morrow,  perhaps, 


RAPHAEL.  141 

I  could  not. — When  I  am  dead,  oh  !  do  not  die  !  I  shall  watch 
over  you  from  above — I  shall  be  good  and  powerful,  as  tho 
loving  God,  to  whom  I  shall  be  united,  is  good  and  powerful. 

After  me,  you  must  love  again God  will  send  you  another 

sister,  who  will  be,  moreover,  the  pious  helpmate  of  your  life. 

...  I  will  myself  ask  it  of  him Fear  not  to  grieve  my 

soul,  Raphael !  .  .  .  .  I — could  I  be  jealous  in  Heaven  of  your 
happiness  ]  ....  I  feel  better  now  I  have  said  this.  Alain  will 

forward  these  lines  to  you,  and  a  lock  of  my  hair I  am 

going  to  sleep  !" 

One  letter  more,  almost  illegible,  contained  only  these  inter- 
rupted lines  :  "  Raphael !  Raphael !  where  are  you  ?  I  have 

had  strength  to  get  out  of  bed I  have  told  the  nurse  that 

I  wished  to  be  left  alone  to  rest.  I  have  dragged  myself  along 

to  the  table,  where  I  am  writing  by  the  light  of  the  lamp 

But  I  can  see  no  more  ....  my  eyes  swim  in  darkness  .... 
black  spots  flit  across  the  paper  ....  Raphael !  I  can  no  longer 
write  ....  Oh,  one  word  more  ! " 

Then,  in  large  letters,  like  those  of  a  child  trying  to  write  for 
the  first  time,  there  are  two  words  which  occupy  a  whole  line, 
filling  the  bottom  of  the  page  :  "  Farewell,  Raphael !" 

CIV. — All  the  letters  fell  from  my  hands.  I  was  sobbing 
without  tears,  when  I  perceived  another  little  note  in  the  hand- 
writing of  the  old  man,  her  husband ;  it  had  slid  between  the 
pages  as  I  was  unsealing  the  first  envelope. 

There  were  only  these  words  :  "  She  breathed  her  last,  her 
hand  in  mine,  a  few  hours  after  writing  you  her  last  farewell. 

I  have  lost  my  daughter Be  my  son  for  the  few  days  I 

have  yet  to  live.  She  is  there  upon  her  bed,  as  if  asleep,  with 
an  expression  on  her  features  of  one  whose  last  thought  smiled 
at  seeing  something  beyond  our  world.  She  never  was  so 
lovely ;  and  as  I  look  on  her,  I  require  to  believe  in  immortal- 
ity  I  loved  you  through  her;  for  her  sake,  love  me !" 

CV. — How  strange,  and  yet  how  fortunate  for  human  nature, 
is  the  impossibility  of  immediately  believing  in  the  complete 
disappearance  of  a  much-loved  being !  Though  the  evidence 
of  her  death  lay  scattered  around,  I  could  not  believe  that 
I  was  forever  separated  from  her.  Her  remembrance,  her 
image,  her  features,  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  peculiar  turn  of 
her  expressions,  the  charm  of  her  countenance,  were  so  pres- 


142  RAPHAEL. 

ent,  and,  as  it  were,  so  incorporate  in  me,  that  she  seemed 
more  than  ever  with  me ;  she  appeared  to  envelop  me,  to 
converse  with  me,  to  call , me  by  my  name,  as  though  I  could 
have  risen  to  meet  her,  and  to  see  her  once  more.  God  leaves 
a  space  between  the  certainty  of  our  loss  and  the  consciousness 
of  reality,  like  the  interval  which  our  senses  measure  between 
the  instant  when  the  eye  sees  the  ax  fall  on  the  tree,  and  the 
sound  in  our  ear  of  the  same  blow  long  after.  This  distance 
deadens  grief,  by  cheating  it.  For  some  time  after  losing  those 
we  love,  we  have  not  completely  lost  them  ;  we  live  on  by  the 
prolongation  of  their  life  in  us.  We  feel  as  when  we  have  been 
long  watching  the  setting  sun — though  its  orb  has  sunk  below 
the  horizon,  its  rays  are  not  set  in  our  eyes — they  still  shine  on 
our  soul.  It  is  only  gradually,  and  as  our  impressions  become 
more  distinct  as  they  cool,  that  we  are  made  to  know  the  com- 
plete and  heartfelt  separation — that  we  can  say,  she  is  dead  in 
me !  For  death  is  not  death,  but  oblivion. 

This  phenomenon  of  grief  was  shown  in  its  full  force  in  me 
during  that  night.  God  suffered  me  not  to  drain  at  one  draught 
my  cup  of  woe,  lest  it  should  overwhelm  my  very  soul — He 
vouchsafed  to  me  the  delusive  belief,  which  I  long  retained,  of 
her  inward  presence.  In  me,  before  me,  and  around  me,  I 
Baw  that  heavenly  being,  who  had  been  sent  to  me  for  one  single 
year,  to  direct  my  thoughts  and  looks  forevermore  toward  the 
Heaven  to  which  she  returned  in  her  spring  of  youth  and  love. 

When  the  poor  boatman's  candle  was  burned  out,  I  took  up 
my  letters  and  hid  them  in  my  bosom.  I  kissed  a  thousand 
times  the  floor  of  the  room  which  had  been  the  cradle,  and  was 
now  the  tomb,  of  our  love.  I  unconsciously  took  my  gun,  and 
rushed  wildly  through  the  mountain  passes.  The  night  was 
dark ;  the  wind  had  risen.  The  waves  of  the  lake,  dashing 
against  the  rocks,  lashed  them  with  such  hollow  blows,  and  sent 
forth  sounds  so  like  to  human  voices,  that  many  times  I  stopped 
breathless,  and  turned  round,  as  if  I  had  been  called  by  name. 
Yes,  I  was  called ;  and  I  was  not  mistaken ;  but  the  voice 
came  from  Heaven  ! 

CVI. — You  know,  my  friend,  who  found  me  the  next  morn« 
ing,  wandering  among  precipices,  in  the  mists  of  the  Rhone ; 
who  raised  me  up,  supported  me,  and  brought  me  back  to  my 
poor  mother's  arms ! 

Now,  fifteen  years  have  rolled  by,  without  sweeping  awaj 


RAPHAEL.  143 

in  their  course  a  single  memory  of  that  one  great  year  of  my 
youth.  According  to  Julie's  promise  to  send  me  from  above 
one  who  should  comfort  me,  God  has  exchanged  his  gift  against 
another — he  lias  not  withdrawn  it.  I  often  return  to  visit  the 
valley  of  Chambery  and  the  lake  of  Aix,  with  her  who  has 
made  my  hopes  patient  and  gentle  as  felicity.  When  I  sit  on 
the  heights  of  the  hill  of  Tresserves,  at  the  foot  of  those  chestnut 
trees  that  have  felt  her  heart  beat  against  their  bark ;  when  I 
look  at  the  lake,  the  mountains,  snows  and  meadows,  trees  and 
jagged  rocks,  swimming  in  a  warm  atmosphere  which  seems  to 
bathe  all  nature  in  one  perfumed  liquid ;  when  I  hear  the  sigh- 
ing breeze,  the  humming  insects,  and  the  quivering  leaves,  the 
waves  of  the  lake  breaking  on  the  shore,  with  the  gentle  rust- 
ling sound  of  silken  folds  unrolling  one  by  one ;  when  I  see  the 
shadow  of  her  whom  God  has  made  my  companion  until  my 
life's  end,  cast  beside  mine  upon  the  grass  or  sand ;  when  I  feel 
within  me  a  plenitude  that  desires  nothing  before  death,  and 
peace  untroubled  by  a  single  sigh ;  methinks  I  see  the  blessed 
soul  of  her  who  appeared  to  me  in  this  spot,  rise  dazzling  and 
immortal,  from  every  point  of  the  hoi'izon,  fill,  of  herself  alone, 
the  sky  and  waters,  shine  in  that  splendor,  float  in  that  ether, 
burn  in  all  those  flames.  I  see  it  penetrate  those  waves, 
breathe  in  their  murmurs;  pray,  and  laud,  and  sing  in  that  one 
hymn  of  life  that  streams  with  these  cascades  from  glacier  unto 
lake ;  and  shed  upon  the  valley  and  on  those  who  keep  hei 
memory,  a  blessing  that  the  eye  seems  to  see,  the  ear  to  heat, 
the  heart  to  feel !..... 

Here  ended  Raphael's  first  manuscript. 


MOT  \  1  W* 
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